


Beatrix

by FalconHonour



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-06-24 09:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15627588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconHonour/pseuds/FalconHonour
Summary: What if Katherine of Aragon had died in childbirth in 1518, leaving Henry with no Queen and no son? With a widowed King and countless Royal Houses and ambitious families vying for his hand, which woman is going to catch his eye and take his heart? Who will become his Beatrix?





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved this story of mine - probably my favourite of all the ones I've ever posted, so I thought I'd transfer it across here from FFNet. Enjoy!

**10 November 1518**

With a woman's final anguished breath, the fate of a country changed forever.

The woman was Queen Katherine of Aragon, wife to King Henry VIII of England and her body, exhausted with the travails of six pregnancies and childbirths, was finally giving up.

The Physicians exchanged a look over her head.

"It's no good, Thomas," one of them said, "The child is stuck. The labour has gone on for too long. Even if we were to cut open Her Majesty, there's but a slim chance that the child would still live. And Her Majesty's person is sacred. We cannot…"

"Aye, but if this child is a boy, then it is the King's heir. The son he has wanted for this past decade. If it yet lives, the child is our Prince of Wales. Doing nothing means we give that boy up for lost. We may well murder him. Need I remind you of the oath we both took when we entered this profession?"

"No."

"Well then. And this is no ordinary mother and child. This is the Queen of England, giving birth to a child that may well be our Prince. Would you have the blood of a Prince on your hands, William?"

"Sirs," a woman's softly accented voice broke in before the other man could respond, "This is no time to think of Royal protocol. The Queen is a woman and a mother like any other. She would want you to do everything within your power to save her child."

The physicians turned to look at the speaker.

"With all due respect, Mistress Willoughby, you know nothing…"

"No," Maria Willoughby,  _nee_  de Salinas, cut him off, "I do not. But I do know Catalina. I know what she would want."

Pausing, she stroked a tendril of her mistress's auburn hair away from the waxen face. When she spoke again, her voice was scarcely above a whisper, but there was a determination in it that could not be gainsaid.

"Cata is beyond pain now. She's gone to meet our beloved Father in Heaven. She's in His hands. So do what you have to do, Sirs. Do what you have to do for the sake of this country. I'll answer for it to His Majesty."

Bowing before the steel in her eyes and voice, the two men nodded and reached silently for their scalpels.

With trembling hands, they sliced jaggedly into the Queen's still warm flesh, praying they wouldn't be sent to Hell for violating Her Majesty's person.

To no avail. They were too late.

His Highness, the Prince of Wales, who would have been the apple of his father's eye, had he lived, but instead had done nothing more than condemn both himself and his mother to death, lay jammed in the birth canal. He was perfectly formed, but large. Too large.

Dr William Butts picked him, rubbed him down with a linen cloth and put his ear to the boy's chest, searching for a sign of life that he already knew would not be there.

"Dead?" His colleague's voice was low, mournful. William nodded gravely.

"Dead."

* * *

Henry knew something was wrong. When he heard Cata's screaming stop, yet failed to hear the piercing cry that heralded his son's entry into the world, he knew something was wrong.

So it was hardly a surprise to see Dr Linacre appear at the door with gravity in his face and sorrow in his eyes.

"Your Majesty."

"The Queen? The Prince?"

"The child was too large. Her Majesty fought valiantly, indeed, we all did all we could, but in the end, Nature took its course. We lost them."

It was one thing to know something was wrong, but quite another to hear it, Henry realised then. Though he'd thought he was prepared for the worst, a deep wave of sadness welled up in him at the physician's words. Tears threatened and he was too choked up to speak. Which meant it was Brandon who spoke next.

"Both?"

"Both, Your Grace. Your Majesty. I am so sorry."

Henry waved the man away, unable to speak. He didn't need platitudes and condolences. He needed them. His Cata and his Prince. But he couldn't have them. He'd lost them. Both of them.

He'd never see Cata again; never see her play with her auburn hair; never rest his head in her lap; never hold her in his arms. He'd never see her smile as their son called her Mama; never hear her laugh proudly when the boy took his first steps. He'd never take the boy riding, never see him shoot his first arrow; never invest him as the Prince of Wales. He'd never hold him high above his head and present him to the people as their future King.

"Harry?" His sister ventured, moving forward. She laid her hand on his arm. Just like Cata used to do.

Henry felt tears rising at her touch, but he choked them back. Grief could come later. He had duties to perform first.

Wrenching away, he laid his hands flat on the table and tried to clear his head. He owed it to Cata to do this properly.

"Tell the Court…" His voice shook. He swallowed hard and tried again, "Tell the Court the Queen has died in childbirth and the child with her. No need to tell them it was a boy. Declare Court mourning. And send the Princess Mary to Beaulieu. She's too young…too young to be here amongst this grief."

His voice was flat, monotone. The words left a metallic tang in his mouth. He turned for the door.

"I shall withdraw into my chambers. Alone. Pray God I'll find peace there."

"Harry," Mary started. He raised his head to her and she fell back at the look in his eyes.

" _Alone,_  Mary."

She let him go without another word.

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Lady Salisbury? Surely the Royal Family should be together in this dark time?"

Lady Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, looked up at the maid who had spoken.

"It is not for us to question, Mistress Alice. The Queen has died in childbirth and the King has deemed Her Highness too young to deal with Court mourning. We are to go to Beaulieu and there's an end to it."

"But Milady, does she know yet? It's been two days. Does she know yet?" Alice glanced towards the door as she spoke.

Before Lady Salisbury could answer, there were unsteady footsteps in the passage outside and a two year old girl with dark blonde hair appeared in the doorway. Seeing Lady Salisbury, she made a beeline for her.

"Lady 'Bury, why packing?" she demanded.

"Your Highness," Lady Salisbury curtsied, "Your Papa has decided you're to move house. To Beaulieu."

"Where?"

"To Beaulieu, Your Highness. It's a nice place. You'll like it. I promise. Come, we'd better get you ready." Lady Salisbury held out her hand and Princess Mary took it trustingly. She didn't make a fuss as they dressed her and prepared her to go out. In fact, it wasn't until they were halfway outside that she suddenly stopped and pulled back.

"Papa? No say Papa goodbye?"

Lady Salisbury knelt down to the toddler's height, "Papa's busy, Your Highness. I wrote him a letter to say we'd gone rather than take you to say goodbye. But don't worry, he loves you. He'll miss you very much. He'll send for you just as soon as he possibly can. I promise."

"Well, Mama? Say Mama goodbye?"

Lady Salisbury's heart clenched. She'd hoped to get Mary to Beaulieu before telling her what had happened. Now it seemed that she was not to get that respite. She reached out a hand to the child.

"Your Highness. I'm going to tell you something and I need you to be a big brave girl. You have to listen to me. You can't see your Mama. I know you want to see her, but I'm afraid she's gone to sleep."

"Wake up. Say goodbye."

Mary's piping voice was insistent. Lady Salisbury ached to hold her in comfort, or at least to be having this conversation somewhere more dignified, more private, than the corner of a stairwell, but, unfortunately, the circumstances did not permit that. All she could do was lay a gentle hand on Mary's tiny shoulder and soften her voice as she gazed into the child's wide blue eyes, "I know you want to, Your Highness. Believe me, I would if I could. I would if I could. But we can't. Your Mama's gone to sleep because she's gone to live with God and His angels. Once you're sleeping God's sleep, then no one can wake you up. I'm sorry."

"But I want see Mama! Want see Mama! Want see Mama!"

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Lady Salisbury repeated, hoping to soothe her charge. To no avail. Mary's eyes filled with tears and she began to lash out at the walls and people around her.

"Want see Mama! Want see Mama!"

Lady Salisbury made her decision. Protocol be damned! She had to get this child to Beaulieu so she could soothe her and settle her properly.

She swept the screaming Princess up into her arms and hung on to her grimly. Ignoring the ear-splitting shrieks of, "Mama! Mama! Want Mama!", that were reverberating off the walls around her, she hurried down the stairwell and out into the courtyard.

As Mary, still kicking and screaming, was bundled into the carriage and borne off to Beaulieu, the skies clouded over and it began to rain in torrents. It was as though, upon hearing its little Princess's pain, the whole of England had decided to give full rein to the grief it felt for Catalina de Aragón. For its Queen Katherine, Queen of Hearts.


	2. II

"We'll lay the Queen in state at Baynard's Castle, then process her to Worcester Cathedral on the first of next month, if that suits Your Highness," Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk and Earl Marshal of England, glanced up at the young Duchess of Suffolk.

She nodded, "Of course."

"You are sure that this is what His Majesty would want? For Her Majesty to be interred with His Highness, Prince Arthur?"

"His Majesty is too prostrate with grief to be able to worry himself over the details of the funeral, my Lord Norfolk. He has left such matters to me and I can think of nothing more fitting than laying the Queen to rest beside the husband of her youth. In any case, if my brother the King so chooses, he too can be interred at Worcester when the time comes."

The young Duchess spoke with a determination that could not be gainsaid. The Earl Marshal bowed his head.

"As you wish, My Lady. I assume you will be Chief Mourner?"

"Aye, Thomas, I will. It is my duty, both as Katherine's sister and as Her Majesty's loyal subject, to see her interred as befits a Queen. Lady Willoughby shall carry my train."

"Is that wise, Your Highness? Forgive me, but Lady Willoughby is a Spaniard born. There are many English ladies of noble birth who would relish the opportunity to do their Queen this final service."

"You forget, Lord Norfolk, that just as Lady Willoughby is a Spaniard born, so too was our noble Queen. Lady Willoughby was both a loyal servant and a trusted friend to Her Majesty from the earliest days of their youth. I can think of no one more fitting to fulfill the office than Lady Wiloughby."

With that, Mary Brandon  _nee_ Tudor rose to her feet.

"T think that is all, My Lord. I will leave the further details to you. After all, you have my mother's funeral before you as a precedent, so I do not see how you can go wrong."

"Madam," Thomas Howard bowed his head and then the Duchess of Suffolk swept from the chamber.

"My Lady Suffolk."

The courteous whispers of acknowledgement were muted. Everywhere she looked, there was black. Black and grey and ashen, sleepless faces. It was clear the courtiers were reeling. Their Queen had gone and she'd taken their sense of security with her.

Not for the first time, Mary wished her brother were here; that he hadn't withdrawn into his chambers. He was needed here. Not for his gaiety, but for his ability to lead. If he'd been here, he could have stabilised the Court; let them share in his grief at the same time as he shared in theirs. But he wasn't here and so, as his sister and their Princess; as the premier noblewoman in England, now that Katherine was dead and little Mary had been taken to Beaulieu, it was up to her.

Mary forced a look of calm to her face and clenched her hands inside her sleeves to keep them from trembling as she addressed the crowd. "My Lords, My Ladies. Your concern for us in this time of distress is commendable and I thank you for it. Rest assured, you will all get your chance to say farewell to the Queen. She will be lying in state at Baynard's Castle from tomorrow, now that the embalmers and the waxwork makers have finished their work."

Taking a deep breath, she glanced around the group of people gathered before her. There was not a dry eye in sight. Choking back her own tears, she continued, "Your obvious grief for the Queen is a balm to my wounded soul. It gladdens my heart to know that the woman I loved as my older sister was so dearly loved and will be sorely missed by all of you. Were His Majesty here to see it, I know it would gladden him too."

Seeing her husband at the other end of the Hall, she inclined her head slightly and then started towards him. The crowd parted to let her through and, within moments, she was at his side.

"Charles," She clasped his arm, drawing strength from the warmth of his skin. He lowered his head to kiss her briefly.

"Mary. You have the details sorted?"

"Yes. Katherine's body will begin lying in state tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Baynard's Castle. She'll be buried at Worcester, next to my brother Arthur."

"Next to Arthur? Does Henry know? Are you sure he'd approve?"

"No. But since he won't see me and would never talk about death even if he would, I'm doing the best I can. What's good enough to be the resting place of the future King of England strikes me as fitting for the final resting place of the Queen Consort who came to England to be his bride first."

"Very well. You're the Princess. You were trained in ritual and statecraft. I was not," Charles bent and kissed Mary again, before saying "I went to your brother's rooms again."

"Did he see you?"

"What do you think?"

Mary sighed. "I wish he wouldn't do this. I wish he wouldn't lock himself away like this."

She swung her husband around so that he could see the courtiers for himself.

"They need him, Charles. They're reeling and they need their King."

"We all do, Mary. We all do," Charles sighed regretfully, "And we shall have him. Sooner or later, we shall have him. Sooner or later, he'll pull himself around. I promise. But in the meantime, we shall simply have to make do with the Duchess of Suffolk."

Mary managed a wan smile at his flattery.

"Stop it, Charles!" she chided, batting his shoulder playfully as they rounded the corner. Even as she did so, however, she was grateful for the brief moment of levity. As much as she grieved for Katherine, she needed to have something to distract her from her next duty. The duty of acting as Chief Mourner at her Queen's funeral.

* * *

The fog pressed thick and close about the funeral cortege, muffling the hoof beats. The Londoners had to strain to see the bier as it was borne past them. Nevertheless, every man, woman and child in the crowd behaved with the solemnity that befitted the occasion. None jeered or catcalled. Every man doffed his cap. Many of the women and children stretched costly lighted tapers – far more costly than they could really afford- out to the procession, or else fell to their knees, weeping openly, as it passed.

However, Queen Katherine wasn't just being mourned in the streets of London. Up in the great rooms of Greenwich Palace, her former husband was also watching the procession pass by. He hadn't intended to; hadn't wanted to put himself through the pain, but he hadn't been able to keep away. His conscience, the sense that Cata deserved to have him pay his respects, had driven him to the window.

He saw his sister ride by, her young back drawn up ramrod straight as she tried to put on a strong façade for the people. Sweet Mary. What would he have done without her in these last two weeks? Henry didn't know, but he didn't have time to consider it.

As Cata's bier reached the section of street directly beneath his window, the sun suddenly broke through the fog. The burst of golden light illuminated the body on top of the bier, accentuating the richness of her scarlet robes-of-state, sparking off the jewel-encrusted rings, brooches and necklaces draped over the figure's slender fingers, full breasts and graceful neck. It caught her flaming auburn hair and made it flame up, bright as the fires she had loved to sit beside.

What impressed Henry most, though, was the way the light caught the golden circlet mounted on her brow. It made it gleam, encircled Cata in a ring of golden light. It was almost as though God had already made her an angel.

"Take her then. Take her and take care of her. For she of all people deserves to be with you. She was the sweetest, most caring, most beautiful..," Henry couldn't go on. His tears threatened to choke him and all he could do was emit a strangled gasp that sounded something like, "Cata! Cata!"

He sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. "Why, Lord, why? Why her? Why him? Why them? Don't I deserve them? Don't I deserve a son? A Queen and a son? Why did you take them from me? Why?"

The tears started flowing and this time he didn't hold them back. Instead, he let himself howl for his Queen, howl out the pain that had lodged itself so deeply within his broken heart.

* * *

"No! No! No sleep! No!"

Lady Salisbury heard her young charge's screams long before the maid appeared in the doorway.

"She won't sleep?"

"No, My Lady Salisbury. The Princess is exhausted, but she's fighting it."

"Again," Lady Salisbury sighed. The maid nodded.

"If I might be so bold, Lady Salisbury?"

"Go on."

"The Princess needs her father. If we could only persuade the King to pay her a visit, things might be easier. Her Highness isn't just grieving for her mother, it seems to me. She's aching for her father too. I don't think she knows he loves her anymore."

Exhaling slowly, Lady Salisbury got to her feet.

"Your concern does you credit, Joanna. But the King is the King. We cannot presume to tell His Majesty what to do."

"But then, is there anything we can do?" Joanna's face fell, even as she saw the sense in the older woman's words. Lady Salisbury laid a gentle hand on the young woman's shoulder.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Suffolk is His Majesty's sister and, next to Queen Katherine, the woman he loves most in England. There is a chance that she may be able to exert some influence on him. Let me settle the Princess and then I will write to her."

"Yes, Lady Salisbury," Joanna curtsied and drew back to let the older woman past as she went to try to soothe the Princess.

Inside the opulent bedchamber clustered four or five young women, all desperately trying to calm the screaming toddler who lay in their midst.

"No sleep! No! Want Papa! He no make me sleep! Papa! Papa!"

"Leave us, Ladies," Lady Salisbury's voice rang out hard over the Princess's screams. Looking relieved, the bevy dropped the requisite curtsies, murmured, "Your Highness. Lady Salisbury," and disappeared through the open door. Lady Salisbury sat down on the end of the bed and drew the sobbing child on to her lap.

"Come, Your Highness, what's all this noise, hmm? Princesses aren't supposed to behave like this, are they?"

"I no want sleep, 'Bury," Exhausted by her fit of temper and reassured by the warmth of her governess's lap, Mary appeared reasonably calm, but Lady Salisbury knew it wouldn't last. They'd been over this ground too many times in recent weeks for her to be taken in by this lull in the storm.

"I know, Your Highness, but you have to sleep. Otherwise you won't be able to enjoy tomorrow."

"But I no want sleep! Want Papa," Mary cried, "Want Papa!"

"Papa's not here, Princess. I'm trying to get him to come and visit you, but he hasn't come yet. He'll come soon, though. I promise. And he'll come all the sooner if you're a good girl and get some sleep. Hush now. Hush."

"No. Papa! Papa!"

"You can't have Papa. You've got to sleep."

All of a sudden, the little girl broke in the face of her governess's implacable reasoning.

"I no want sleep! I scared, 'Bury!"

"Your Highness, there's nothing to be scared of. Sleeping's lovely and we all need it. I do too, you know."

"Is! What if I no wake? Mama no wake, what if I no wake?"

The innocent question sent a knife through Lady Salisbury's heart. "Oh, Your Highness!"

"Mama no wake. What if I no wake?" Mary repeated. Lady Salisbury pulled the child even closer.

"You will," she promised, "You will. Mama's an angel now. She'll watch over you and make sure you do. And I'll wake you myself. Go to sleep now and I'll wake you in the morning."

"Promise?" Mary's candid eyes were begging.

"On England, Harry and St George," Lady Salisbury kissed her charge's brow and tucked the warm swans-down covers around her. She rose to leave, but Mary clung to her.

"Stay. Hold," she demanded.

And Lady Salisbury couldn't resist. Even though it went against all her principles of child-rearing, she lay down upon Mary's luxurious four-poster bed, fully clothed, and drew the little girl into her arms. They stayed like that until Mary had fallen asleep.

Once she had, Lady Salisbury kissed her one last time, then slowly rose and untangled herself. Going to her own room, she fetched parchment, quill and ink and began to write a letter to the Duchess of Suffolk.

_"Your Grace,_

_Firstly, let me extend the deepest condolences from all of us here at Beaulieu over the loss of Queen Katherine._

_I realise that now, with Her Majesty scarcely cold and indeed not yet buried, is perhaps not the most fitting time to ask this, but I don't know who else to turn to._

_The fact of the matter is, Her Highness Princess Mary is suffering greatly from the loss of her mother. She is either incredibly meek and quiet or else impossibly wild. While I am sure that these violent mood swings are largely caused by grief, I feel that the fact that His Majesty hasn't visited her here at Beaulieu has only exacerbated the matter._

_Please, Your Grace, I beg of you, if you can, use your influence with His Majesty and try to persuade him to visit the Princess here. I feel sure that a visit from the King would help Her Highness settle into her new home._

_A thousand thank yous and, once again, I offer my deepest condolences over the loss of Queen Katherine._

_I remain, Madam,_

_Your devoted Servant,_

_Lady Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury."_

When she had finished, Lady Salisbury let the letter dry, then lit a candle and sealed it with dripping wax. Calling a page, she handed him the letter.

"For the Duchess of Suffolk. She'll be somewhere on route to Worcester, so leave as soon as it's light."

The lad nodded, bowed and was gone. Lady Salisbury watched him go and then turned to her embroidery, always keeping an ear open for the muffled cries that heralded Princess Mary's awakening from a nightmare.


	3. III

_February 1519_

"It can't go on like this!" Mary Brandon sighed, "It's been three months, Charles. We can't go on like this! We can't!" She flapped a letter in her husband's face, "Lady Salisbury says the Princess is getting more and more impossible. Ti's the third letter I've had like that this month. She needs her father, Charles. Mary needs her father and England needs her King!"

"I know. I know. But what do you want me to do about it?" Charles sighed, "Henry is the King, Mary. If he wants to stay in seclusion, then there's nothing anyone can do."

"You could try, Charles. You're his best friend."

"You're his sister. What makes you think I could do a better job than you could?"

"I'm a woman. He won't speak to me the way he would to another man. Particularly not since I'm his baby sister. Please, Charles."

Winding herself around him, she stroked his hair.

"There's no one who knows how to talk to Harry better than you. And think of our little boy. Little Hal. Would you want to let him live with the pain of not knowing his father?"

"No! Of course not!" Charles exclaimed, his heart clenching at the thought of no longer being a part of his son's life. Mary wound his dark locks around her fingers.

"I thought not. So don't let Mary go through it either. Go and talk Henry out of his seclusion. Please."

"Oh, very well. I'll try. I'll try."

Extricating himself from her hold, he sighed, kissed her swiftly, slipped from the room and made his way to King Henry's apartments.

The young page, Francis Weston was just exiting as he reached them. Charles stopped the boy with a quiet hand on his shoulder.

"How is he, Francis?"

"No better, no worse, My Lord Suffolk," Francis murmured. Sighing, Charles nodded and stepped past him into the darkened room, trying not to reel back at the musty smell that permeated the air.

"Harry? Your Majesty?"

"I said I didn't want to be disturbed, Charles." Henry's voice was heavy. Charles hesitated, but knew he had to press forward. He owed it to Mary – both Marys- and to Henry."

"I know, Henry. I know."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I'm your friend. Because I don't like seeing you hurt. Because I want to help you."

Charles stepped forward, laying a daring hand on his friend's shoulder. To his relief, Henry didn't pull away. Instead he simply sighed bitterly.

"You have, Charles. You and Mary both. More than you know."

A silence stretched between the two men for a moment. Suddenly, Henry burst out, "Is there a curse on the Tudors, Charles, because we won our throne through conquest and not through blood? Are we doomed to lose our Queens in childbed forever?"

"No, Henry no! You mustn't think that! You mustn't!"

"My father lost my mother. I lost Cata. And my son. There must be…"

"It was bad luck, Henry, that's all. Sheer bad luck. Look, I know how you feel. I know it feels like the end of the world; like she's taken your youth with her; like you'll never be happy again. But it'll pass. Trust me, it'll pass."

"How do you…? That's it exactly. How do you know?"

At Henry's words, Charles sighed with relief, releasing a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. He couldn't let Henry consider the fact that he might have been cursed. He couldn't. Henry was so superstitious. Who knew where he might let the thought lead him?

He said nothing of his thoughts to Henry, of course. All he said was, "I lost my Anne, remember? I lost my Anne just like you lost the Queen. I felt like you, Harry. I thought I'd never be happy again. But things changed. I stopped grieving like a husband and a father and let myself grieve like the young man I knew I still was. And then I met Mary. Your sister. I met her and I loved her. She made me happy again, Harry. She made me happy again and now we're married and have our beautiful children. So you're not cursed, Harry. You're not. You'll have a boy to be your Prince yet. You'll have him with a woman you love, I promise. Just because you lost Cata doesn't mean you can't have a boy with a woman you love. You just have to give it time."

"What changed you, Charles? What changed things for you?" Henry's voice was hollow. Charles took a deep breath. He knew he was taking a gamble with his next words, knew Mary would hate him for this whatever the result, but he had no choice. He'd baited the hook and now he had to reel it in.

"I grieved like a man. I let myself stop being a husband and a father and just became a man. That's what you need to do, Harry. Stop being a King. Stop being Cata's husband. Stop being Mary's father. Just be Harry. Just Harry."

"How? After everything that's happened, Charles, how?"

"Would you like me to show you?"

Henry fell silent and Charles held his breath, straining his eyes through the darkness to see how his friend's face changed.

Finally, Henry nodded.

* * *

"You're doing what?! Taking him drinking?! Whoring?! No! Oh no, Charles, I forbid it! I forbid it, do you hear me?!" Mary Brandon screeched at her husband.

"I don't know what you're complaining about! At least he's out of his room!"

"You were supposed to persuade him to visit the Princess, not agree to take him whoring! What about his role as her father or her King? What about his duties to England?"

"His sense of duty is what got us into this mess in the first place. It's crushing him, Mary, can't you see that?"

"And getting him drunk is supposed to help?!"

"Yes! It'll help him let go. You're a woman; I wouldn't expect you to understand. Just trust me. Trust me to know what's best for your brother."

Charles shoved past Mary. She sprang ahead of him and slammed the door.

"You're not doing it, Charles! I forbid it! I forbid it!"

"Who are you to forbid me anything?!"

"I'm the King of England's sister!"

"Not anymore! You're not my Princess anymore! You're my wife! You're my wife and by God you will stand aside. Now!"

Before he really knew what he was doing, Charles had raised his arm to strike Mary. Stunned, she shrank back slightly, just enough for him to force her out of his way.

He flung himself down the passage, still seething; still shaking with anger. What was he doing? He'd never threatened Mary like that before. Never. He had to be going mad.

" _All the more reason to get Harry back to himself by whatever means necessary,"_ he thought, " _All the more reason. I'm not sure how much more of this our marriage can take."_

* * *

" _Marianne,_

_I am coming over to Paris on State business as soon as the sailing season starts. When I return to England, I shall be taking you back to England with me to join your cousin Isabel in the Duchess of Suffolk's household. The Duchess has asked for you specially, so I hope you won't be silly about coming back. Anne shall stay in France for a while longer, since she seems to be doing well for herself there._

_Your future Mistress asks to be remembered to you both and I ask you also to remind Anne always of her duty to the Boleyns and Howards. Remember yours too daughter and behave accordingly._

_God be with you."_

Mary Boleyn's hand clenched on the letter she was reading. Her heart sped up and she had to fight to control her breathing. She'd known this day would come, had almost been expecting it, but she still couldn't quite believe the words she was reading. She was to go back to England. After all these years in France, she was to go back to England.

 _"Marie? Are you all right?"_ Her best friend, Jeannette, called to her softly.

The question snapped Mary out of her reverie. Anne! She had to know! Mary was leaving her behind; it was only fair to give her due warning. Ignoring Jeannette, she whirled round and fled down the corridor.

 _"Marie? Ça va?"_ Jeannette called after her, but Mary was gone. She raced away down the passages, heedless of decorum as she sought her younger sister.

Suddenly, the door of a nearby schoolroom swung open and Anne came out, laughing and teasing a younger girl over her shoulder.

Despite the situation, Mary couldn't help but scold her younger sister as she pulled her aside.

"How many times must I tell you this, Annie? You mustn't speak to Her Highness like that! Renee might only be nine years old, but she's a Princess of France! You'd do well to remember it."

"Agh, Marie, leave it. you're not my Maman. You're my sister, ma soeur. When we're in private, Renee wants to be my friend, not Renee, file de France. As long as she wants that, I'll treat her like it, d'accord?"

Mary opened her mouth to argue further, but Anne merely shrugged elegantly and changed the subject with a grace that was far beyond her years.

"Now, I assume you didn't come looking for me to scold me on my conduct towards the Princess Renee. What's going on?"

"Papa's written from London. He's coming over at the beginning of the sailing season and he'll take me back with him. I'm to serve our Dowager Queen in her new position as Duchess of Suffolk."

"Marie?"

" _Oui. Reine Marie."_

_"Et moi aussi? Moi aussi? Marie, moi aussi?"_

As she often did when she was distressed, Anne lapsed into French. Mary glanced down at her sister, suddenly realising what a child she still was. She was happy here in Fontainebleu; Paris was more of a home to her than England was. It was hardly surprising. Anne had only been seven when they'd come to France with Dowager Queen Mary. She scarcely remembered England.

Gently Mary shook her head.

_"Non, Anna, non. Tu non."_

Once she had soothed Anne enough for the latter to listen to English, she went on, unfolding the letter and rereading the words she'd already burned into her memory aloud to her sister. When she'd finished, she looked back down into Anne's dark eyes, offering her a reassuring smile.

"See? You are to stay here, Annie."

Relief flickered in Anne's eyes before she managed to pull herself together. The Boleyn sisters shared a long glance before Anne whispered, "I'll miss you, Marie."

It wasn't the warmest of sentiments, but Mary knew Anne meant what she said. She was happy to be staying in France, but given the gap between them and the absence of their blood mother, Mary was the closest thing to a mother that Anne had ever known.

Without another word, she closed the gap between them and pulled the younger girl into her arms. Despite herself, Anne returned the embrace. For a few moments, the girls let themselves forget that their worlds were changing around them. For a few moments, they were nothing more than what God had made them in the first place. Sisters.


	4. IV

It was already getting dark when there came a quiet knock on Henry's door.

He jerked his head at the page who stood behind him, "Get it."

"Yes, Sire," the boy nodded, leaving his place to open the door. Charles stood behind it. he dismissed the page with a simple wave, "Out. I'll take care of His Majesty."

The page looked quickly at Henry, who nodded approval. The boy bowed silently, then vanished. As the door shut behind him, Charles took over, fastening Henry's dark cloak about his shoulders.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

But Henry didn't sound ready. He sounded more unsure of himself than Charles had ever known him. daringly heedless of protocol, he clapped his friend heartily on the back.

"Don't worry. The girls are clean and of high birth – as high as you'll get in the profession, anyway. And everyone goes by a false name. No one need know you're the King, not if you don't want them to. It's only a bit of harmless fun."

"Fun you indulge in?" Henry's voice was sharp. Mary was his treasure; the last of his family. If Charles was unfaithful to her -!

"Not since I met and married your sister," Charles lied smoothly. He'd seen the cloud of anger pass over Henry's face and knew well enough to head it off quickly. At his words, Henry relaxed and even managed a smile as Charles led him from the room down the twisting passageway to the back stable yard where their horses stood waiting.

* * *

 

It was but a short ride to the building that Charles had in mind. Upon reaching it, he tossed a nearby boy the reins and signalled to Henry to do the same. Then he turned to another and called, "Here, Will, look sharp and tell Madam Freeman that Master Lisle's here and that he's brought a friend. John. John…"

"Richmond," Henry supplied, as Charles cast hurriedly about for a name. Charles nodded, "Richmond."

"Yes, Master Lisle," Will tugged his forelock and dashed inside. Henry and Charles followed more sedately, so that, by the time they entered, a buxom woman with luxuriously chestnut hair was already shouldering her way towards them.

"Master Lisle," she curtsied, "How wonderful to see you again. It's such a pity that your affairs keep you away for so long at a time."

"A great pity, Madam Freeman," Charles breathed, lifting the woman's hand with practised ease. Henry frowned as his best friend transformed into such a practised charmer, but, at that precise moment, Madam Freeman noticed that he was still standing alone.

"Ah, forgive me, Master Richmond. I hear we need a gentle one for you, yes?"

Without giving Henry a chance to respond, she turned, clapping her hands, "Tilda. Take care of Master Richmond for me."

A young girl; a slender willow of a thing with a mass of tumbling blonde curls, moved forward.

"Of course, Madam Grace. If you'll follow me, Sir?"

Henry cast a glance back at Charles who nodded, "Go. I'll wait here, John."

Fearing for his image, Henry had no choice but to follow Tilda. However, once they were away from Madam Freeman's eagle eye, she softened.

"First time out, Sir? Don't worry, nerves hit them all in one way or another. We can take as much time as you like. Just lie back on the bed, have a glass of wine and then, when you're ready, I'll show you a few tricks that will work on any girl, no matter who she is."

Henry did as he was told, feeling a strange relief as the weight of his titles was lifted from his shoulders. He didn't have to be King Henry here. In fact he didn't even have to be Henry, which meant he wouldn't be betraying Cata's memory by what he was about to do. He could just be John. Ordinary John looking to assuage his ordinary desires.

He kept telling himself that, with the result that, when Tilda began to stroke him in all the right places, it seemed natural to him to respond in the ordinary way.

* * *

It seemed to Henry later that his night with Tilda had been a dream, a dream he longed to recapture but couldn't.

Now that he was out of his rooms, duty overtook him once more. His ministers swarmed about him, begging for his input on this treatise or that law or some proposed Bill for Parliament. Fools. Couldn't they manage without him for just a little bit longer? Didn't they realise he had other matters to attend to?

Like the blonde in Mary's ladies, for instance. He liked her. He liked her because she reminded him of Cata, in the way that she was so quietly spoken, but thankfully she wasn't like Cata to look at. No. she was like Tilda to look at. If it hadn't been for the obvious difference in their status, they would have been able to pass as twins. They had the same slender figure, the same big blue eyes, the same mass of blonde curls. The same ones his mother had had too.

Of course he wouldn't lie with this girl. No. Cata was barely cold in her grave. It would be treading on her memory. Tilda hadn't been, of course, because he hadn't been himself then. He'd been John Richmond and no one had known he was the King, but this girl would be different. She'd know he was the King. So he couldn't sleep with her. And he wouldn't. But he would enjoy her company. Cata wouldn't begrudge him that, would she? Of course she wouldn't. after all, it wasn't as if he was in love with this girl, not the way he'd been in love with her. No. he just wanted to enjoy the girl's company a little, as friends. That was nothing wrong in that, was there?

* * *

Mary knew her brother was infatuated with Bessie Blount. She knew he was also trying to assuage his conscience because of his grief for Catalina, but she knew his desires would win out in the end and he'd start courting Bessie.

He didn't say anything. Of course not. But he didn't have to. The way his eyes kept lingering on the girl was enough. She was just waiting for him to ask her name.

So why, when the question finally came, did it feel like something momentous was about to happen? As though it was such a threat to her place at his side as his hostess?

"Sister. That blonde girl amongst your ladies, the quiet one. What's her name?"

"Bessie, Bessie Blount," Mary choked out the name, desperately trying to hide the fact that the syllables were leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She had to force her face to remain blank as she watched her brother as he rose, walked over to Bessie and bent to whisper something in her ear.

She saw Bessie nod, rise and follow him out of the room. She saw the way her cheeks were tinged pink with pleasure when the two of them came back into the room and the way her brother walked with a slightly jauntier step.

He bent over her hand and kissed it, "Farewell, Sister. I must take my leave. Matters of State detain me."

She nodded, and let him go, her mind whirling. There was no doubt about it. Whatever Charles had undertaken with Henry that one night had driven him straight into Bessie's arms. Mary only hoped the matter wouldn't spiral out of control.


	5. V

Bessie tumbled into her family's apartments, almost shouting with glee.

"Cecily! Cecily!"

"What is it, Beth?" Her older sister appeared from the other room, frowning slightly at the open excitement in Bessie's eyes.

"Bessie. I'm Bessie now, Cecily."

"Not to me, you're not," Cecily murmured, flicking her eyes downward in a stab of regret. If only their mother were here. She'd have been able to temper Beth's vivacity. For all she was three years older, Cecily was often overwhelmed by her sister's forceful personality. Beth might only be eighteen, but she knew her own mind, that much was sure.

Giving herself a little shake, Cecily looked up and smiled, "Anyway, you had something to tell me. What is it?"

"I'm to ride out with His Majesty tomorrow."

"You're to – Beth!"

This time, Bessie didn't complain about the use of the childhood nickname. Instead, she laughed in triumph.

"Yes, me. He asked _me._ Not his sister, but _me_."

"You'll have to look your best," Cecily, ever the pragmatic one of the sisters, went straight down to details, "Have you thought what you'll wear?"

"My cornflower blue velvet with the swansdown cape?"

"Yes, maybe. Blue suits you. And we can put Mama's sapphire around your neck."

"Hmm," Bessie was saved from answering properly by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Cecily called. The door opened a crack and their cousin Mark put his head round it.

"I heard our Bessie's been noticed. Are you planning for the ride?"

"Yes," Cecily answered, before Bessie could do so."

"Good, then my errand isn't in vain. Father will want to see the Blounts do as well as he can out of this. If you get the opportunity, give this to the King," Mark produced a rosary of polished mahogany from his pocket, "It was our grandmother's and the King likes family loyalty. He attaches a great deal to sentimentality. Giving him this will show that the Blounts are willing to sacrifice their own family treasures in order to succour him in his grief. And even if the opportunity doesn't arise, you're to wear it on your belt by your hunting flask. He'll appreciate the show of your piety. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mark," Bessie sighed, taking the rosary from her cousin. He raised his eyebrows at her reluctance.

"I thought you'd be happier than that. I'm trying to help you."

"Who says I want your help? The King noticed _me_ , not the Blounts. I'm not a child any more. I'll handle him, thank you."

"What do you mean, 'handle him'? What do you want out of this?" Mark started at the ferocity in Bessie's tone. She shot him a winsome smile.

"I don't know yet. Let me start the game before you ask me what the end moves will be, Mark. Now, I must go, or Duchess Mary will miss me."

She moved the door, brushed her cousin's cheek with her lips as she passed him and hurried off, leaving her cousin and sister exchanging worried glances.

* * *

Bessie was already mounted when the King came hurrying into sight. He stopped in his tracks and bowed to her.

"Mistress Blount. Forgive me for having kept you waiting. Such behaviour is unpardonable in a gentleman."

"But not in a King," Bessie replied, "I quite understand that matters of State must come before something as trivial as honouring an unworthy lady with Your Majesty's attentions."

"Oh, not unworthy. Never unworthy!" the King hastened to assure her, kissing her hand briefly before swinging himself into the saddle, "What do you think of my Perseus?" he added, a note of pride creeping into his voice as he gathered up the black's reins.

"A fitting foil for so golden a King," Bessie murmured, tipping her hat back half an inch so that her golden curls, so unlike the late Queen's, shone visibly in the early spring sunshine.

A weak smile tugged at the King's lips, "You think me golden, Mistress Blount?"

"As the noonday sun, Sire," she replied, glancing at him as she allowed her mount to break into an easy loping trot, "Has Your Majesty given any thought as to where we might go today?"

He started at the direct question, then recovered, "The lake, perhaps?"

"Of course."

Bessie spurred her bay forward and the King fell into line beside her. The two of them rode along in silence for a while before he finally broke it.

"You ride better than Cata did, Mistress Blount. She wouldn't have dared canter along as you are doing. It wouldn't have been fitting for a Queen."

Pain sparked in his eyes and, to her surprise, Bessie found her heart melting at the lost note in his voice. Thanking heaven for Mark, she pulled the rosary from her belt.

"I know the Queen was a wonderful woman, Sire. My family and I say prayers for her soul every day."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I use this rosary. It was my grandmother's."

He half-reached for the beads and Bessie dropped them into his palm, "Take it, Your Majesty."

"But…it was your grandmother's."

"She left it to me in her will, so it is mine to do with as I please," Bessie lied, continuing "I'm giving it to you. I would be honoured to think that my humble gift will be giving such a great King a little relief from his pain," Bessie closed the King's fingers gently over the rosary, letting her hand linger on his for just a moment. He raised his eyes to hers.

"You have a noble heart, Mistress Blount."

"A heart always at Your Majesty's command," Bessie whispered, somehow instinctively knowing what to say. A heartbeat passed. Two. The King leaned from his saddle. Bessie felt his hand on her cheek and let her eyelids flicker shut. His lips brushed hers, their touch light as a feather's.

"Thank you…Bessie."

* * *

The weeks passed and Bessie found herself spending more and more time with the King. He called to take her riding on an almost daily basis. They dined together; played cards together in the evenings. It built up gradually, but one day, Bessie realised that she was spending more time with the King than anyone else was; even his sister and brother-in-law, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk.

Which meant that it was only a matter of time before the family found out. Mark and Cecily had known from the beginning, of course, but now her father and uncle realised that their little girl was no longer the helpless little flower that they thought she was.

One morning, they called her to her father's rooms.

"Father. Uncle," Bessie curtsied. Her father nodded in acknowledgement.

"Elizabeth."

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. It appears you've been spending quite some time with the King recently."

Bessie shrugged, "His Majesty asks for me and I obey."

"As you should. How far has he taken things? I know he is still grieving the loss of the Queen, but King or not, he is a man and many a lesser man takes a mistress in such circumstances."

"Not far, Sir. But I am not ready for him to take them further yet."

"Not ready?" Her father's voice sharpened, "What do you mean, you are not ready?"

"His Majesty does not look to me for everything yet. I need him to do that before I am ready."

"Look to you for everything! Good God, girl, are you playing for the throne?!"

Bessie hesitated. The truth was, though she might have been at first, now she genuinely just wanted to help the King through his grief. The last few weeks in his company had been more wonderful than Bessie had ever dared hope they would be. But she couldn't tell the men in front of her that. They expected more of her. Closing her eyes and steeling her heart against the pang of guilt that stabbed at her, she kept her voice as steady as she could as she answered, "Not necessarily the throne, Father, but England has no Queen, so I do not see why I should not be at His Majesty's side just as well as any other woman."

"Nor do I," he murmured, then sighed, "Very well, Elizabeth. You seem to be handling the matter well enough for the moment. His Majesty seems happy enough with you, so I do not see any reason to change things for now, but if we're no further forward soon, things may be different. Is that clear?"

"As crystal, though we will be," Bessie assured him, summoning a confidence she did not feel.

"Very well, you may go, Elizabeth."

Bessie curtsied, then ran out of the room and changed her gown before riding to the lake to meet the King.

He was ahead of her and turned at the sound of her hoof beats.

"Bessie," he greeted, attempting to smile at the sight of her, but not quite managing it. Groaning inwardly as the realisation that he was in one of his more morose moods dawned on her, Bessie drew rein and slid from the saddle.

"Henry!" She caught his hand and tugged him towards the lake with her, "Come in with me."

"What?!" He started. Bessie nodded.

"It's May. Surely it'll be cold."

"Cold but not too cold. Oh come on, Henry! Please! Come in with me!" she begged him, flashing him his favourite half-smile as she waded into the shallows of the lake, lifting her skirts high to try to keep them somewhat dry.

"Katherine wouldn't like it. She'd say it was beneath me as a King and a widower."

Stifling a sigh, Bessie splashed out of the water and went around behind him, knowing he needed careful handling when he got melancholy like this.

"Katherine loved you, Henry. And you loved her. I'm not denying that. But that doesn't mean you have to give up all fun forever. Part of loving someone is wanting them to be happy. Katherine would want you to be happy. So come on. Don't just be a King, be a man too. Be a man and play with your sweetheart. Please?"

"Are you my sweetheart, Bessie?" His voice sounded worryingly insecure. Bessie just wanted to kiss the smile back on to his face, but forced herself to chuckle lowly, caress his shoulder and then reach up and ruffle his hair.

"You know I am, Henry. You know I am. Now catch me."

Risking everything, she backed teasingly away from him and raced back into the shallows. To her delight, he chased after her. Spinning around, she scooped up a handful of water and flicked it in his direction.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then she was rewarded with the sound of something she hadn't heard before. The great bellow of his laughter.

"Oh, Bessie, you are the best girl in England! Oh that I could have you at my side every day!"

Bessie's heart skipped a beat. If he was saying stuff like that, then she ruled him as completely as she could ever hope to, given that she could never be his anointed Queen. She swung round to him.

"Oh, but Henry, you can. You are the King. You have only to command and I would have to obey."

"But I don't want to command. I want you to come to me of your own free will," he whispered.

Bessie pretended to hesitate, but her heart was singing and it seemed natural to her to say, "My will and my heart are one and my heart is yours."

It seemed natural to her let him sweep her up and canter her back to the palace in his arms, abandoning her horse there by the lakeside; to enter his rooms beside him as though her rightful place was on his arm; natural to yield her most precious possession to him in one heated flood of bloody passion.


	6. VI

“Come, Mary. Say your farewells and we’ll be off to catch the tide,” Thomas Boleyn spoke gently to his eldest daughter. More gently than he normally did. Mary was fully aware of that fact, but knew exactly why he was playing the doting father, delighted to be taking his daughter home. He was in public, in front of King Francis, Queen Claude and the Duchess of Alencon, who had Annie beside her.

Still, though Mary raised her eyebrows inwardly at her father’s acting, she dared not challenge his authority so flagrantly, so she merely nodded, murmuring docilely, “Yes, Papa.”

She turned to the King, Queen and Duchess, curtsying swiftly. King Francis raised her up, whispered a few words of farewell into her ear, waving away her attempts at an eloquent thank you and then nudged her in the direction of her younger sister.

“Annie,” Mary breathed, embracing her younger sister, “Be a brave girl.”

“When am I not?” Anne asked, cocking an eyebrow. Mary chuckled.

“True. But still, you’re the only Boleyn left now. Stay strong. Stay strong and do us proud, hmm? I’ll be thinking of you.”

“And I of you, Marie. Take care. Take care and Godspeed, ma soeur.”

“Godspeed and God be with you, Marie,” The Duchess echoed Anne’s words, placing a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. Releasing her sister, Mary dipped down into a final curtsy.

“Thank you, Your Highness. God be with you.”

Then she took her father’s arm and backed out of the room.

Anne watched the two of them leave, feeling tears prick her eyelids. Why did Marie have to leave her? Couldn’t they go on being the Boleyn Sisters, as they always had? How was she supposed to cope now that the last of her family had left her?

“Anna, Ca-va?” Her Mistress touched her shoulder, “Renee is asking for you.”

At the words, Anne gave herself a little shake. Of course she’d cope. Wasn’t she Anne Boleyn? Duchess Marguerite’s bold little Boleynette? Besides, she was twelve years old. Practically a woman. She didn’t need a mother any more. Especially not when Madame Marguerite took such good care of her and Princess Renee thought of her so highly.

Drawing herself up, Anne nodded, “Oui, Madame. Ca va.”

With the words, she shut off the part of her that was still little English Annie and gave herself up to being French.

Gave herself up to being Anna.

* * *

Mary’s heart was hammering as she knocked on the door of the Duchess of Suffolk’s apartments. A page in dark blue and soft grey livery opened it, “Yes, Mistress?”

“I am Mistress Marie – I mean, Mistress Mary Boleyn. I am to join Her Grace’s household this morning,” she explained, sensing the blood rush to her cheeks as she mangled the introduction. Thankfully, the lad only inclined his head and stepped back, “We’ve been expecting you.”

Mary felt at home as soon as she set foot in the Duchess’s apartments. They weren’t as opulent as they used to be; now that she wasn’t Queen of France, they weren’t the best in the palace, but they were still opulent enough to denote her status. They still had her spoilt pet dogs scampering around, making an absolute cacophony. Many of her old friends from when she’d first gone to France still sat sewing in the windows, laughing quietly with one another.

One of them, Sarah, caught sight of her and sprang up. “Mary! You’re back at last!”

“I am. Papa brought me back. He thinks it’s high time James and I were betrothed. I mean, we are both quite old enough to, in his words, ‘consent to and seal the union’.”

A stab of guilt went through her as she mocked her father, but it quickly dissipated as Sarah laughed and threaded their arms together.

“And so you are! Now come. I’d better present you to Her Grace so we can have you sworn in and then we’ll be free to catch up properly.”

* * *

The Duchess greeted Mary almost as warmly as Sarah had done and, within hours, she had regained her footing within the bevy of ladies as though she had never been away. Which meant it was only natural that she should be at her mistress’s shoulder when, as the group headed outside to hawk in the gardens, they crossed paths with another woman.

The woman was slender and blue-eyed, with a mass of honeyed curls tumbling down her back. She wore an expensive gown of cornflower blue silk and carried herself nobly. Only the hint of arrogance in her eyes and the scarcity of ladies trailing behind her belied the fact that she wasn’t as high ranking as Duchess Mary.

The Duchess’s entire body tautened. “Mistress Blount,” she acknowledged icily.

There was a fraction’s silence and then Mistress Blount dipped into the merest hint of a curtsy, “My Lady Suffolk.”

Her head was still up; her eyes still locked with the Duchess’s. There was no submission or servility anywhere in her posture or indeed in her demeanour at all. The two women stared one another down for a few more seconds before Mistress Blount snapped her fingers.

“Come,” She instructed her ladies, sweeping past the King’s sister as though she owned the palace. Colouring, the ladies swept down to the floor in respect for Duchess Mary’s higher rank and then followed. Mary glanced between the rapidly vanishing quintet and her fuming mistress, then, correctly supposing she wasn’t going to be able to ask the Duchess, dropped back to talk to Sarah.

“Who was that?”

“That was Elizabeth ‘Bessie’ Blount,” Sarah hissed, spitting out the nickname as though it were belladonna, “You replaced her in Her Grace’s Household, as it turns out.”

“Mistress Blount was in Her Grace’s household? They don’t appear to get on,” Mary murmured, a hint of question in her voice. Sarah growled.

“And they shouldn’t. Mistress Blount is the King’s latest paramour. Now, I’m not saying it’s not within His Majesty’s rights to take a mistress, but honestly, did it have to be Mistress Blount? She’s become insufferable. Four months she’s been at his side. A mere four months and she already thinks herself a Queen. Just because she’s lucky enough to have been granted a few ladies of her own, she thinks we should all be bending the knee to her.”

Sarah was about to say more when the Duchess called, “Mistress Boleyn?”

“Yes, Your Grace?” Mary hurried forward.

“You’ve just come from France. Does King Francis keep a Mistress?”

“Your Grace, it is the right of every King to keep a Mistress.”

“Aye, I know that well enough. I’m asking; does King Francis exercise that right?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I see. And how does the chosen lady conduct herself in Queen Claude’s presence?”

“My Lady, they barely meet.”

“But when they do?”

“Well then, Madam, Queen Claude is of course paid the full respect that is due to her as Queen of France. King Francis insists upon it.”

“Francis insists upon it, does he?” A look black as thunder rolled across Mary Brandon’s pretty features, “Francis insists upon it, yet my brother, the greater King by far, is content to let his spoilt teenage whore act as though she runs the Court.”

There was nothing Mary could say to that. Instead she merely curtsied silently. The Duchess peered down at her for a few seconds, before sighing loudly.

“Still, my brother’s whims are not your fault, Mistress Boleyn. Run and fetch my hawk, would you?”

Relieved to have got away so lightly – the old Mary Tudor would have thrown something at her for being the bearer of bad news – Mary straightened up, murmured “Madam,” and ran, all the time wondering whether she could have answered any differently. But no, she couldn’t have. She had been as diplomatic as she could while still telling the truth. Wasn’t one supposed to tell the truth to one’s monarchs, if they demanded it?

* * *

Though Bessie had been going towards her own rooms, she changed tack and headed for the King’s apartments. How could Mary Brandon think she could get away with calling her ‘Mistress Blount’ and forcing her to curtsy to her? How could she? Hadn’t Bessie done more for the King than his sister had? Wasn’t she the one whom he loved with all his heart; the one he’d claimed he wanted at his side every day? Of course she was. So shouldn’t Mary be the one showing her respect? Of course she should.

Bessie stormed through the doors, slamming them behind her. A multitude of pages and serving boys looked at her in shock.

“Out! All of you, Out!” she screamed.

Startled into obedience, they ran.

Hearing the kerfuffle, Henry came out of his bedroom, alarmed when, eyes pooling with tears, Bessie flung herself into his arms.

“I can’t do this anymore! I can’t!”

“Bessie, what’s wrong? Darling?”

He held her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. Gradually, Bessie allowed herself to be comforted. At last, she looked up at him with all the injured innocence she could muster.

“It’s not fair, Henry. It’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair? Bessie, I can’t help you unless you talk to me. What’s not fair?”

“Your sister,” Bessie gulped at last.”

“What about my sister?”

“She still treats me as though I’m in her household. She still expects me to defer to her!”

“Well, she is my sister. She is a former Queen and a Princess.”

“Not anymore! She’s just a Duchess now. Besides, she betrayed you! I’ve never betrayed you! Never!”

“I know you haven’t. I know.”

“So make her treat me with respect! Make her curtsy to me! Please!”

Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Bessie pressed on, “I love you, Henry. I love you just as much as Katherine ever did. You know that. You know I came to you of my own free will, whereas she married you for politics as much as for love. And Mary always showed Katherine respect, so why should I be any different? Tell your sister to show me respect. Please?”

Henry began to try to explain that Katherine had been a Queen; a daughter of Kings and that, besides, the circumstances had been different, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. As he hesitated, Cata’s voice flashed into his head, “She’s playing you, Harry. Can’t you see she’s playing you?”

He shook his head firmly. “Shut up!” he growled inwardly, “Shut up! Can’t you see she’s crying over this? I won’t have her crying over this?! When you died, I swore I’d never make a woman cry. After all, I never made you cry, did I? No. it was you who made me cry when you left me. Bessie’s made me happy again. I owe her something for that. Besides, she’s right, Mary and Charles did betray me. I’ve been too soft on them, as you pointed out to me, if I remember correctly. This will be a good lesson in humility for them both.”

Stroking Bessie’s hair, he led her to the nearest chair and sank down on to it, pulling her into his lap.

“It’s all right, Bessie. It’s all right. You don’t have to curtsy to Mary. You’re right, she should be the one curtsying to you. I’ll speak to her. In fact, I’ll speak to everyone. We’ll have everyone calling you, ‘My Lady Blount’ and bowing to you before the week’s out. Everyone will be bowing to you and you won’t have to curtsy to anyone. Not even Mary.”

“Do you promise?”

Her voice was damp, strangled. He nodded.

“I promise. I give you my word that I’ll arrange it today. Does that please you, sweetheart?”

Her answer was a wordless kiss; the sweetest they had ever shared.


	7. VII

"Henry, you can't be serious! Me, curtsy to her? To that – that upstart?!" Mary Brandon stared at her brother, incredulous with anger, "She's a nobody!"

"Nevertheless, Mary, you will show her respect. I demand it."

"I'm your sister!"

"And still my subject. Bessie will be 'My Lady Blount' to everyone before the day is out and you, as the second Lady in England, will be the one to set an example."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll count yourself lucky if you're still a Duchess at the end of the week."

"You wouldn't! You wouldn't possibly hold Charles responsible? You know no man can control me, least of all him! Why on Earth would you strip him…Unless…Do you still hold our marriage against us? After all these years?"

"I suggest you don't chance what I would and would not do. Just do as you're told. I'm the King of England and I will be obeyed, do you hear?"

Mary began to retort, but bit the words back as the herald struck his staff against the floor, "The Lady Blount to see you, Your Majesty."

Instantly, the ire melted from Henry's face as though it were made of wax. He crossed the room in two strides and caught Bessie's hand in his before she had even begun to curtsy.

"Bessie, darling."

His voice was soft, tender. As tender as it had once been when he spoke to Mary. Or Katherine, his real Queen. It nearly made Mary sick to see him fawning over the young harlot as solicitously as one might a Princess of the Blood. Yet worse was to come.

"Sire," Bessie breathed, "I had hoped to catch you alone, but if you are occupied…"

"No, sweetheart, I'm not. Mary was just leaving, weren't you?"

The dismissal was final. Mary had no choice but to abase herself before the two of them.

"Your Majesty. My Lady Blount."

The words clumped in her throat, threatening to make her ill. Oh the shame of it! the shame that she, a former Queen of France and Princess of England and Duchess of Suffolk besides, should have to bend the knee to a mere Knight's daughter! Resentment, so long smouldering in her heart, sparked and burst into flame. In a matter of moments, she determined that, should it ever be possible, she would oust Elizabeth Blount from her brother's heart, no matter what it cost her.

* * *

Unbeknown to Mary, Bessie was struggling with a dilemma of her own. She loved the King, she really did, and she loved the way he treated her; as though she were the only girl in the world, but she was realising now that her carefree behaviour had produced consequences far greater and weightier than she had ever imagined it might.

She was kicking herself. She could try to pass it off as youthful ignorance, but, whatever people might think of her, Bessie knew she was intelligent enough to know that, at eighteen, one really ought to know better. Especially given what had happened to Queen Katherine less than a year past. Who knew how the King would react? Oh, he'd sworn to be Bessie's Sir Loyal Heart forever, to love her come Hell or High Water, but hadn't he sworn that to the Queen? Hadn't she died in childbed? Wouldn't that be the only thing on his mind, if she, Bessie, told him? Of course it would! So she couldn't tell him! She couldn't!

"Bessie. Are you all right?"

God, he was so sweet; so eager to check on her welfare. He had noticed her distraction and touched her cheek to recall her to him. Bessie turned her head to kiss his cheek.

"Of course I am, Henry. Forgive me. I was just thinking of the Midsummer's masque tonight, that's all."

"Ah yes! I shall be King of Summer and you shall be my Princess! Princess Elizabeth of the Roses," His brow cleared at her words. Soon he was lost in detailing the masque; the clothes they would wear; the lines they would speak, even the dance the two of them would dance together to bring summer to the Court and therefore to England. before long, he had pulled her up to rehearse it one last time and Bessie, relieved to have averted his attention so easily, was more than happy to go with him.

* * *

"You have to tell him. Beth, you have to tell him!" Cecily insisted, "You're not doing yourself any favours by refusing to tell him. At the moment, you might be able to fob him off with pleas of illness and your courses, but that won't last forever. Eventually, he's going to insist on bedding you again and that might harm the child you're carrying."

"I don't care! I don't care! I'll take the risk!" Bessie sobbed, feeling more like a child than ever as she buried her face in her hands. Cecily knelt down beside her, gripping her shoulders.

"Elizabeth Blount, you listen to me. You can't do that. You can't do that, not anymore."

"Why not? For God's Sake, why not?"

"Because you're not a child anymore. You're nineteen on your next birthday and a mother to be. The child in your belly is a responsibility, one you will have to bear, whether you like it or not. And part of that responsibility is telling the King. Do you understand?"

"But I don't want to!"

"It's not a question of 'I want'. It's a question of necessity. The King must know you are carrying his child and there's an end to it. Now, I'll go as far as to say that if you'd rather I told him, then I will, but…"

"No," Bessie shook her head, "He barely knows you. he'll take it better from me. but I would like Mark to be there. I'm going to do this, then I'm not going to do it alone."

"All right. All right. I'll tell Mark to come and find you and the two of you can tell the King. Hmm?"

Bessie nodded slowly. Cecily breathed a sigh of relief and stood up. "Good girl. Good girl. You'll see; everything will be much easier once you've told him."

" _Will it?"_ Bessie wondered, but there was no time to argue. Cecily, ever the prim yet pragmatic one of the two, was already gone.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Mark squeezed her hand gently. She shook her head, "No."

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. Cecily will have my head if I don't."

"Father will have your head if you do. If he finds out you've slept with the King and not taken precautions…"

"He's going to find out eventually. One way or the other. I can't hide forever. If we can get Henry on our side, then I might be able to brazen the whole thing out. After all, there's no shame in being the King's mistress, is there? Especially when he's not married."

"If," Mark repeated anxiously. But there was no time to say any more, for there were footsteps in the passage outside and Bessie's page was crying, "His Majesty the King."

Dazedly, Bessie rose to her feet and dropped like a stone into a curtsy. The King held out a hand to her, but she was blind to it. She remained in her supplicant position until the strain of holding it got to her and brought awkward tears welling up in her eyes.

"Bessie? Bessie, what is it, darling?"

His Majesty knelt down beside her, holding out his arms to her. She felt him embrace her and her defences broke.

"I'm sorry! I should have been more careful! Please don't be angry!"

"I could never be angry with you, sweetheart. Never. I promise. Just tell me what's wrong."

Oh, he was saying all the right things, but who knew if he'd stick to them once he found out? Where would fine words get her if, in a few months' time, she was swollen and heavy and unable to show her face at Court for fear of disgrace? If only he hadn't lost the Queen in childbed! If only it hadn't made him so mercurial! She wouldn't be so scared.

As it was, however, all she could do was cling to him as a drowning man would cling to a rope thrown from a ship. "Please don't be angry," she repeated.

"Why would I be angry? What can you possibly have done that would make me angry with you?"

"I'm pregnant!"

Suddenly the dreaded words were out, blurted out in a strangled rush of desperation. Their effect on the King was immediate. His body went taut against her and his hands stilled in her hair.

"What did you just say?" he whispered.

"I'm pregnant," Bessie repeated into his chest, silently begging Mark to help her. As though he could sense her predicament, Mark broke the silence, injecting an extra note of gaiety into his voice.

"Isn't that wonderful news? Congratulations, Your Majesty. May I be the first to congratulate you on the prospect of a healthy son? And my best to you too, of course, dear cousin."

"Of course you must, Master Blount. And you must take the very best care of your cousin now. Nothing could be more important than the child in her belly, do you hear?"

"Yes, Sire. You may count on me to do my level best, My Lord."

"I know I can. And you must give Bessie everything her heart desires. Money no object. Her…My…Our future happiness depends upon it. This child must be swaddled in love and care before it even leaves Bessie's womb. Understood?"

"Yes, Sire," Mark nodded, clearly thrilled at how well the King was taking the news. Bessie, on the other hand, felt her heart sink. The King appeared to be solicitous, true, but his concern had been general; focused on the child's welfare and not hers. Not once, though she was still in his arms, had he bent his head and asked about how she felt about becoming a mother before she herself had completed a score of years on God's Earth. Nor had he told her how happy she'd made him, as she'd always imagined her husband would do when she shared the news of her pregnancy with him. true, it could just be because Mark was in the room, but the presence of others had never stopped him declaring his feelings before. Bessie feared that this deliberate control of his emotions could be the beginning of the King's withdrawal from her arms. Still, he hadn't acted angry, so perhaps she didn't have to start worrying just yet. Even if it had taken him a heartbeat too long to answer Mark. She leaned back against him and tried to take heart from the way his arms automatically tightened around her.


	8. VIII:

Henry didn't say anything, but Charles wasn't blind. He could see for himself that the Blount girl was no longer in quite as much favour as she used to be. Henry used to practically be joined at the hip with the girl, but now it was possible to speak to him alone; to take him riding for an afternoon without her tagging along.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he would come and join Charles in flouting convention to dine with Mary in her confinement and the three of them would sit and laugh and talk about their days in the nursery at Eltham, just the way they used to. The way they used to before everything had happened.

So it was hardly a surprise when the Blount girl's belly started to swell. No wonder Henry had been so distant towards her. He would be worried that he'd lose her in childbed just like he lost the Queen. Still, that child was his. It could be his son, his heir. So why wasn't he making moves to marry her? Why hadn't he even acknowledged the pregnancy? With the way he'd doted on her all through the spring and early summer, Charles wouldn't have put it past him. Yet he wasn't. Instead, he was withdrawing into himself, becoming quieter and quieter as Bessie's pregnancy became more and more pronounced.

The fact that Henry didn't mention Bessie's pregnancy meant that Charles couldn't either. In fact, it wasn't until Bessie's own pregnancy came to term that September and Henry congratulated him on having expanded his family yet again, with another daughter this time, that Charles dared to lean on the years of friendship and honesty between them and say, "Thank You, Your Majesty. As you may imagine, Mary and I are delighted by Lady Eleanor's safe arrival in the world. May I in turn, offer my humblest congratulations to you?"

"Congratulations? Whatever for?" Henry sounded nonplussed. Baffled, Charles took a step back.

"Well, the Lady Blount, of course. The child must be yours. After all, you've scarcely been apart since the spring."

"Oh, that, of course. Thank you,"

"If I might be so bold…You don't sound especially pleased, Your Majesty. Surely a child at this time is a blessing; a fresh start?"

Henry's eyes darkened momentarily and he flashed them to Charles's face before sliding his gaze away. Charles reached a hand towards him inquiringly, "Your Majesty?"

"If it were legitimate, yes. But even if it is a boy, that child is a bastard. It could never take my throne. What good is that for England? What good is that for me?"

"It's not too late. You could marry her. Marry her now and the child would still be born in wedlock, which is the important part. You could have your Prince, Sire. You and the Lady Blount could be King Henry and Queen Elizabeth, just like your parents were and, like them, you could have your Prince Arthur within the year."

For a moment, Henry's face lit with hope; then, mere instants later, he shook his head, "I can't."

He turned away. "I can't," he repeated.

"Why not?"

It was too direct a question to put to one's King, really, but Charles sensed that this wasn't the time for protocol. Watching, he saw how Henry's shoulders tensed, then slumped as he exhaled.

"Because I'd curse her if I did. I'd curse her. Our child would be born dead, I know it. Or else I'd lose her. As a punishment for not staying true to Cata's memory. Or else because my father took the throne by force and not by right of blood. No. I can't do that to her, not to my beautiful Bessie. I can't."

"But now? What if the child lives? Will you at least acknowledge it?"

"Oh yes. I owe her that much, at least. And I'll see her taken care of. God, if I could be sure that the child would live; that they'd both live, I'd marry her tomorrow. But I don't and I can't make the same mistake twice. I did it to Cata and I won't do it to Bessie. I won't do it to another woman I love. I won't."

"Harry…" Charles started, then sighed. He could see it was useless. Henry was determined to be melancholy tonight. He would just have to hope that, the next time Harry fell for a girl, he was able to put aside his worries for long enough to do his duty and beget a legitimate heir on her.

* * *

"So Harry doesn't feel comfortable, now that his harlot's pregnant?" Mary Brandon chuckled, "How ironic, given that he's the one who got her into that state in the first place."

Her voice was biting. Charles rested a hand on her stomach where it was still plump from little Nell's birth, rubbing it lightly as he answered, "No, he he's not, but I'll thank you not to be so open in your glee, Madam. He is your brother after all and he hasn't rescinded his orders that we treat the Lady Blount with respect yet. Besides which, need I remind you that we all know what happened the last time Harry was this insecure? We need to organise a distraction for him before we lose him all over again."

"True," Mary mused, shifting Nell in her arms and already running over the ladies present at Court in her mind's eye. They needed one who was pretty enough to tempt her brother, vivacious enough to hold his interest, clever enough to, unlike the Blount girl, not get herself with child, at least not for the moment, and humble enough not to try to take over the reins at Court as Bessie Blount had done. Unsurprisingly, there weren't that many candidates, especially not since Mary only felt safe enough to entrust the job to one of the girls in her own household. Preferably one of the ones who'd already proved their loyalty when they served her during her months in France. Sarah, perhaps? No, she was too outspoken. Henry would have loved her a year or two ago, but not now, not when he was so insecure. He'd need a girl he could play the Knight in shining armour with. Susanna? No, too old, too like Cata. She'd bring back painful memories. For everyone.

Mary was so lost in her own thoughts that she scarcely even noticed when Charles, chuckling at the calculating smirk on her lips, plucked Nell from her arms, laid her back in the bassinet and kissed them both as he took his leave. Nor did she notice, when, several minutes later, Nell started squalling with hunger.

As such, she didn't call for her to be taken back to her wet-nurse, so the poor babe was positively howling by the time one of the maids screwed up the courage to enter Mary's private chamber to fetch her without permission.

The door opened a crack, and Mary Boleyn looked in, "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I heard Lady Eleanor crying and I wondered if you might like me to take her back to her wet-nurse?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, Marie, thank you," Mary answered, waving her in and addressing her by her French name, as indeed, everyone in the Duchess's household had taken to doing in an attempt to keep the two of them apart.

Following Marie with her eyes as she scooped Nell up and crossed the room to the door that led into the nursery suite, trying in vain to soothe the ravenous child as she did so, Mary smiled wanly as she realised what a faithful servant Marie was becoming. For all that she was slightly different because of her French education, she was still a trusted friend and a part of Mary's household that she wouldn't have known how to do without.

And then it crashed over her like a thunderbolt. Marie might just be able to serve her in another way as well.

"Sarah, tell Marie I need to talk to her, would you? And shut the door behind her and make sure we're not disturbed, understand?"

"Yes, Madam," Sarah curtsied and was gone. A few minutes later, Marie, having returned from the nursery suite, was curtsying beside her, "You wanted to see me, Madam?"

"Yes. I…I...," To her horror, Mary found that this was more difficult than she had thought it would be. The words stuck in her throat and in the end, she had to tackle the matter by way of another route.

"You know Queen Katherine's memorial service is coming up in November, don't you?"

"Yes, My Lady."

"Well, I don't know how much of it you heard about, being in France as you were, but the King took the Queen's passing extremely hard. He withdrew into his rooms for months. I don't want that to happen again. I don't think the country could handle it."

"I'll pray that it doesn't, then, Madam."

"I want more than your prayers, Marie. I want your help in ensuring that it doesn't."

"My help?" Marie looked at her, wide-eyed and Mary had to bite down on a surge of anger. Was Marie really that obtuse? Was she really going to make her spell it out? Sarah would have understood what her mistress was asking long ago.

However, Harry liked his girls slightly naïve and trusting, so Mary swallowed her ire and kept her voice steady as she answered, "Yes. The King is going to need good friends about him during this difficult time," She paused to let her words sink in, then continued, lying skilfully as she went on, "I had hoped the Lady Blount would be able to support His Majesty over the next few months, but sadly, they appear to have parted ways recently. Can I trust you to offer my brother your friendship in the place of hers?"

The mention of Bessie had done its work. Understanding flashed across Marie's face, before, her features blank, she sank to the floor in a graceful curtsy, "If that is what Your Grace requires of me," she murmured.

Despite herself, Mary found herself admiring the younger girl's composure. What Mary had just asked of her – to put herself in the King's way and basically hire herself out to him as a whore, though hopefully without getting herself with child – could not be a pleasant thought for any girl who hoped to make a good marriage. Yet Marie was taking the news and agreeing to it almost without a pause for thought. Clearly, she was a better courtier than she sometimes let on. Maybe this wouldn't go as badly as she, Mary, had feared it might.

* * *

Of course, Marie had her own thoughts on what her mistress had just asked of her. It wasn't that she had anything against helping the King through his grief, of course not. She was loyal to him and would do anything she could help him. However, if she'd been taught one thing by her mother and father before she went to France, it was that a girl should never surrender her virtue before marriage, no matter who asked it of her. She hadn't given in to King Francis when he tried to court her and take it and she wouldn't give in to King Henry either. No matter what. Her maidenhood was her husband's to take and she'd make sure that, whoever he was, he was the one to take it. Which meant she'd have to go in to this game with her eyes wide open and be very careful about how far she let the King go.

Oh, it was a dangerous game she was playing, Marie knew, but it was the only game she could play. She had no choice. If the King made advances to her – advances beyond friendship, she'd have to refuse him. Refuse him and then try to deal with whatever consequences came her way.

* * *

On the other side of the palace, George Cavendish was hastening towards his master's office, an open letter clutched in his hand.

"Sir?" He asked, as he reached the ajar door and pushed it further open. Wolsey looked up.

"George? What is it? I'm trying to do the accounts for this past quarter. I thought I said I didn't want to be disturbed?"

"I know, Sir, and I apologise, but this has just come off the boat from France and I felt you ought to know immediately."

So saying, George pushed the missive he carried across the desk. His master picked it up and scanned it, his double chins quivering gently as his beady eyes flicked across the page.

When he had finished it, he remained silent for a few moments, rubbing his chin – one of them, anyway- across his open palm thoughtfully.

"So," he said at last, "The Duke of Alençon has died in a hunting accident."

George nodded, though kept silent. He knew the prodigious brain under that Cardinal's hat would be working furiously and he had no desire to spoil his master's train of thought.

Sure enough, within a few moments, Wolsey stood up and began to pace the room, thinking aloud.

"This leaves King Francis's sister Marguerite a widow. A beautiful widow, they say. a beautiful widow only a year younger than His Majesty."

"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking, Sir?" George ventured.

"Well, the Queen's passing has left us without a European alliance. I don't want to trouble the King in his time of grief, but I think it would be prudent to forge another as soon as possible, don't you?"

"And you don't think another Spanish alliance is the way to go?" George asked, earning himself a sharp look from his master.

"After all the pain the Spanish have caused His Majesty recently? No, I think not. Let's not risk opening old wounds. A French alliance is the way to go, now that it is possible."

For a moment, Wolsey paused in his pacing, steepling his fingers together against his temples as he mused on the best way to approach this delicate matter.

"We must write to King Francis as soon as we can, expressing our condolences upon the death of his brother in law."

"Yes, Sir. Should we also broach the idea that we might be open to an Anglo-French alliance?"

Wolsey hesitated for a moment, before nodding, "Why not? Nothing could happen officially, of course. It would not be seemly. Nonetheless, it never hurts to be beforehand. Yes. Do it. I tell you, George, if we handle this right, we could have a new Queen this time next year and a Prince in the cradle within twelve months of that."

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, what are you waiting for then, you cretin?! Get to work! Draft me a letter I can send to Paris! Quickly!"

"Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir!" Flushing as his master's volatile temper flared up at his slow reactions, George mumbled an apology as he hastily backed out of the room.

He left a very pensive master behind him.


	9. IX

" _Dearest Annie,_

_First, please convey my heartfelt condolences to Duchess Marguerite over the death of Duke Charles. I know they never perhaps loved each other as much as King Henry and Queen Katherine did, but I also know how much kindness and mutual respect there was between them. I can only guess at how much she must be reeling from his death. As indeed am I. I remember how kind he was to both of us when were arrived on French shores with the old Queen Mary, two shell-shocked and motherless little English girls. I beg you, let Marguerite know that I am praying both for his soul and for her at this difficult time."_

Here, Marie paused, wondering whether to tell her little sister what Duchess Mary had requested of her. Annie was only twelve after all. Then again, twelve was legal womanhood. And Annie had grown up at the French Court, in the service of one of its most glittering personages. It was hard to believe that she wouldn't already know about this sort of thing. Perhaps, strange though it seemed, it was time Marie started entrusting confidences of this sort to her little sister.

Uncertainly, she dipped her pen back into her ink and laid her nib to the parchment once more.

" _As for me, everything is going well here in England. I'm rising ever higher in Duchess Mary's favour. So much so, in fact, that she recently put her trust in me and gave me a commission. I am to try and win His Majesty's confidence and distract him during the preparations for Queen Katherine's memorial service, so as to prevent him from becoming overwhelmed with grief once more._

_I will let you know if I am successful. But please, say nothing of this in your letters to Father. He will find out soon enough and I would rather do without his interference for as long as I can._

_Anyway, time grows short, so I send my blessings, little sister, and ask that you fill me in on all the news from France just as soon as ever you can. Greet Jeannette for me._

_God Bless, Annie. I remain, as ever,_

_Your sister Marie"_

Signing, drying and sealing the letter, Marie went down to the postmaster's office.

"For my sister, Master Cornwalsh, but keep it separate from the family packet, will you?" she requested, pressing a gold half-angel into his hand and turning on her sweetest smile. He melted instantly.

"But of course, Mistress Boleyn," he assured her, taking the sheaf of parchment from her. Marie smiled in relief, "Thank you."

Then she turned and ran back up the stairs, back up to her duties in the Duchess's household.

* * *

A few days later, she sat sewing and gossiping with Sarah, when their mistress called, "Sarah, Marie. I plan to hold a masked ball to celebrate Michelmas. The Virtues and the Vices. Sarah, you can play Perseverance and Marie, I'd like you to play Gentleness."

Marie lifted her head and sought her mistress's eyes. A current of understanding passed between them.

"As Your Grace wishes," she murmured.

* * *

The weeks passed and all of a sudden, the day came. Marie found herself, not only resplendent in a gown of ivory-coloured silk, but standing on the highest tier of a painted wooden castle, symbolically "trapped" by her mistress, herself dressed in scarlet and black satin in her role as Lady Cruelty.

There was a flourish of trumpets and a dozen masked knights, led by Sir Loyalty and Sir Ardent Desire, rushed into the hall.

One of them, Sir Ardent Desire, put up his sword.

"My Lady Vices, I desire – nay I demand – that you release these, your gentle prisoners."

"As Lady Cruelty, I feel I may withhold their delights a little longer", Duchess Mary laughed.

"Aye, for myself alone," Susanna, or rather, Lady Selfishness, added.

"As Lady Scorn, I laugh at your desires," Jane Parker improvised.

The audience howled with laughter. Sir Ardent Desire's eyes flashed.

"My Lady, I think you will find that desire overcomes all," he countered, before clenching his hand on the hilt of his wooden sword and raising the blade above his head.

"Attack!" he yelled.

Amid howls of merriment, the knights rapidly scaled the battlements. As befitted a masque, the Vices yielded after only the most token of resistance, though Marie did see Lady Cruelty being led off by Sir Ardent Desire, so presumably she would be dancing later, having been granted clemency for yielding.

As Marie watched her go, however, she was recalled to her part in the masque by Sir Loyalty's hand closing over her wrist.

"Gentleness, you are my prisoner now," he breathed.

Though Marie recognised His Majesty's voice instantly, she didn't let it show, only half-curtsied and let him lead her from the battlements, face impassive.

No words passed between them as they stepped together through the first part of the salladre, but when they switched partners as the dance demanded, Marie felt his eyes following her.

And when, released from Sir Francis Weston's – Sir Courage's – hold, she took his hand once more, she could tell he was barely able to restrain his curiosity.

"Who are you?" he murmured, "Have I seen you before, Lady Gentleness?"

Marie hesitated for just a beat or two – to steel herself for what she was about to do just as much as to heighten his curiosity. Then she let her eyes flash – just for an instant – up to his face.

"I'm Marie," she whispered, "Marie Boleyn."


	10. X

**November 10, 1519**

Solemn bells were tolling, marking the gravity of the occasion; telling London that, on this day a year ago, England's beloved Queen Katherine had died in childbirth and, along with her stillborn son, been taken up to meet her Maker in Heaven.

Closeted in the relative privacy of the Chapel Royal at Greenwich, Henry heard them tolling and felt his grief welling up afresh. It might have been a year, but today, the wound still felt as raw and vulnerable as that very first day, the day Dr Linacre had come out of Cata's lying-in chamber with his eyes so grave and his voice so heavy.

Giving in to his pain, Henry sank to his knees, sensing the entire Court do the same behind him. His younger sister, so recently returned to Court from her confinement and her trip to Suffolk, slid her hand daringly into his, vainly trying to offer some comfort as Archbishop Warham started the Mass,  _"In nomine Patris, Filli et Spiritus Sancti…"_

Henry echoed his words automatically, fighting the urge to turn and seek solace in his sister's grieving eyes. Or in those of her confidante, Mistress Marie. The one who had played Gentleness in that masque a few weeks ago. She had been everywhere Henry turned in the days since then, and although he usually hated feeling pressed in by anyone, he couldn't feel that way about Mistress Marie. He couldn't. She was too quiet and gentle to make anyone angry at her for anything. One could even say that she embodied Gentleness.

Suddenly, Henry shook his head. What was he doing? This was no way to be thinking, not at Cata's memorial service. Today, today of all days, ought to be her day! Her day and no one else's!

Angry at himself now, Henry determinedly pushed away the thoughts that were betraying Cata's memory and forced himself to pay attention to the service.

* * *

Far away, in Beaulieu's own little chapel, the three year old Princess Mary also knelt before the altar, praying for her mother. Unlike her father, however, she wasn't using the Latin condoned by His Holiness. She was using her own words.

"Dear God, please. Please. Give Mama back. Give Mama back and I be good, I promise."

A hand touched her shoulder, "Come, Your Highness. You've prayed enough. The Lord will have heard your prayers by now. It's time for you to eat."

Mary flinched away, "No! No!," she whispered, careful to keep her voice low, as everyone had to do in church. She couldn't go now. She couldn't! She was just asking God for the most important thing, to give them her Mama back, so that Papa would be happy again and she could be his Princess again. Or _a_  Mama, at least.

But Lady Bury was spoiling it all. She kept disturbing Mary and now God would never hear her. It wasn't fair! Mary hadn't disturbed Lady Bury when she was praying. She hadn't! So why did Lady Bury do it, when she always told Mary that interrupting was rude? Mary was the Princess, after all.

Lady Bury's voice came again, "Come, Princess Mary."

Mary pulled away, wishing she could tell Lady Bury to go away. Then somewhere, as if in answer to her prayer, came a faint memory of Papa shouting at someone because they hadn't done what they were told. She couldn't shout, of course, not in church, but she could make her voice angry like his.

"I say no, Lady Bury. Leave."

Her governess's hand left her shoulder and Mary couldn't help turning to see how she had reacted. The woman had fallen back a step or two, surprised at the testiness in her charge's voice.

"Leave," Mary repeated, smiling inside as she watched her governess nod slowly, beckon the other ladies and leave the chapel. She felt proud of herself for finally managing to remind them who was the Princess and who had to do what they were told.

But pride wasn't allowed, it wasn't nice, and God would never hear her prayers if she wasn't nice, so Mary felt guilty. Kneeling back down, she let her lips move almost soundlessly, whispering, "I'm sorry, but please. Let Lady Bury realise she not Mama. That she no tell me what I do. And please, help Papa be happy again. Help him find new Mama for me, so he happy and love me like used to."

Mary begged under her breath, hoping against hope that God had heard her. Hoping against hope that she'd have a new Mama soon.

* * *

Unbeknown to Mary, back in London, Cardinal Wolsey was just opening a new missive from the King of France. Scanning it, he let out a satisfied chuckle. In seconds, George Cavendish was at his side.

"Your Eminence?"

"Everything is progressing nicely, George," Wolsey murmured, stroking his ample chin in satisfaction, "Francis has taken the bait, just like I hoped he would. Our Ambassador writes that Francis has told him that an Anglo-French alliance against the Emperor would be much to his liking, and suggests that we send extra envoys to Paris to discuss the broader points of such a treaty, who will then perhaps move on to discussing other, more delicate matters, when the timing is more appropriate."

"Yes, Eminence," George nodded, happy to see his master satisfied for once, "Had you given any thought as to who might sail for France once the weather permits?"

"Once the weather permits? I had thought of sending the Earl of Derby and Sir Thomas Boleyn out together. Whatever my personal feelings about him, there's no denying that Boleyn is a fine statesman and the Earl of Derby is as loyal a servant of the King as any man you'll find anywhere in the country. Draw their credentials up for me, will you?"

"Yes, Sir," George half-bowed and went to leave, but Wolsey called after him, "Wait. I had forgotten. I want young Lord Percy to travel with them."

"Lord Percy?" It wasn't often George Cavendish questioned his master's orders, but he was surprised by these. The lad was only fourteen, after all. Was it really wise to be sending him to France?

"You have a question, George?" Wolsey raised an eyebrow and George coughed hurriedly, "Oh no, Sir, not really. It's just…isn't Lord Percy a little young for a delicate trip of this sort?"

"He's thirteen, George. His father is keen for him to learn some ambassadorial skills. Even with light duties, this trip will be good experience for him. Make sure he is included in the party."

Shrugging, George nodded, "As you wish, Your Eminence."

Bowing, he left the room to fulfil the task his master had set him.

**Havering Palace**

**March 1520**

Bessie Blount was sitting with her sister and maids, quietly sewing at her baby's layette, putting the finishing touches to a tiny embroidered cap, when a sharp pain stabbed at her stomach as something broke inside her.

"Ahh!" she cried out, dropping the embroidery hoop as she doubled over. Cecily was at her side in seconds.

"Beth!" she cried, holding out her hands to her sister and helping her stand as the pain eased.

One glance down at Bessie's skirts, suddenly hanging warm and wet and heavy against the latter's legs, told Cecily all she needed to know.

"Do not be alarmed, ladies," she said steadily, "but I think my sister's time has come."

Behind her, Bessie yelped with both pain and fear, and Cecily knew it was time to get her alone so that she could concentrate her strength on the ordeal she was about to go through.

Wrapping her arm around Bessie's waist, she helped her walk into the birthing chamber and arrange herself comfortably on the birthing bed, calling over her shoulder, "Fetch the midwives, one of you. And someone tell the King. He needs to know of this."

* * *

"What are you doing? Marie, what are you doing?" George walked into his elder sister's room to find her pulling on a riding cape and heading for the door.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to visit the Princess Mary at Beaulieu."

"But…"George stared at her, stunned, "Mary – Marie, what are you doing? You haven't got the King's permission. If he knew you were going to see her -"

"He'll forgive me," Marie answered, feigning a confidence that she did not feel. "He might not be happy at first, but he'll understand that I'm only doing this for him because I care for him and want to see him happy."

"But what if he doesn't? Have you thought of that eventuality, Marie? I know he's been nothing but devoted to you since the Lady Blount went into her confinement, but are you sure you rule him that completely? Are you sure you know how he'll react? The Lady Blount's just gone into labour. What if he decides he needs you here? What am I to say if he asks for you?"

"I leave that to you. But I must go, George. I must. If this child lives, then the King will be family-minded. What better time to bring the Princess Mary back to Court?"

Faced with his older sister's determination, George knew he would lose eventually. Yet he could not help himself.

"Father. Uncle. They won't like you doing this either."

"Which is why I don't want you to tell them where I am until I've gone."

George hesitated. Unexpectedly, Marie came across to him, gripping the tops of his arms in a human vice.

"Please, George! Can't you see I have to go! I have to! Every time I think of that poor girl, alone at Beaulieu, with neither mother nor father…" Marie broke off as her voice trembled. To his astonishment, George saw tears pooling in her eyes. He could gainsay her no longer. Extricating himself from her grip, he took a step back.

"Fine. Go. But on your own head be it."

Marie needed no second urging. She whirled on her heel and was halfway down the staircase before he could say another word.

* * *

Henry sat playing cards with his sister and brother-in-law, when there was an urgent knock on the door.

"Enter!" he called jovially, trumping Charles's seven of diamonds with his Queen of Spades. Mark Blount put his head round the door, "Excuse me for interrupting, Sire, but my cousin Cecily felt you ought to know. Bessie has gone into labour."

" _Bessie has gone into labour._ " The words rang in his ears, echoing oddly round his head. he felt the blood drain from his cheeks and his cards slid through his fingers, scattering over the table-top as his grip went slack.

"Harry? Mary ventured, putting her hand out to him. Shaking his head, he pulled away and went to the window, gripping the ledge so tightly that his knuckles went white. He scarcely heard Charles slapping Mark heartily on the back and inviting him to take a cup of ale with them.

This was it. He'd know within days – maybe even hours – whether or not the Tudors truly were cursed. Whether they were forever doomed to lose their women in childbirth or whether there was still some hope for them.

All of a sudden, his lips parted and he found himself praying as he had scarcely ever prayed before, "Please, God, in Your mercy, don't take them away from me. Not them too. They don't deserve to die. Any sin they have committed is through me. They are innocent. Please. Let them live. Haven't we suffered enough? Haven't we paid the price for taking the throne by force? My son, my brother, my mother, my Queen – weren't their lives enough? I beg you, say that they were. Grant Bessie and her child life and repeal our curse. In Your mercy, I beseech you."

"Harry?" Mary repeated, touching his arm again, "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get you?"

"Marie," Henry spoke the name without quite knowing he was going to, "Get me Mistress Marie."

Reading the pain in his eyes and knowing that only Marie's soft touch and gentle voice would soothe her brother now, Mary nodded and sent a page running to the Boleyn apartments. Unfortunately, a few minutes later, the lad was back…alone.

"Begging Your Graces' pardon, but Mistress Boleyn was nowhere to be found. Her brother said he saw her ride out about half an hour ago, but he has no idea when she'll be back."

"Oh damn her!" Mary swore, "I thought she was reliable!"

Henry felt as though he ought to defend his sweetheart – he had promised to be her Sir Loyalty, after all – but he was feeling let down too. How dare Marie abandon him when he needed her most! How dare she?! After everything he had done for her! How dare she?!

Still, she had, so there was nothing for it but to let Mary take her place at his side; to let her find his hand with hers and grip her soft skin in his rougher skin so tightly that he might have been a drowning man and she his driftwood.

Mary would have protested at the ferocity of her brother's grip, but one look at his ashen face told her protest was futile, so she merely took a deep breath and stood silently beside him, willing him to take some of her strength and use it to get himself through the next few hours.

Locked together like that; like they hadn't been since they were children in the nursery, waiting to hear how their mother fared after giving birth to their sister Katherine, or how their brother Arthur was faring after one of his many illnesses, the Tudor siblings waited for news.

* * *

Marie swung herself off her horse in the courtyard of Beaulieu, pausing only to throw the reins at a passing stable boy and to pull herself together before she swept into the Palace with her head held high. Lady Salisbury, the Princess's governess, rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her. A moment later, much to Marie's surprise, she curtsied.

"Mistress Boleyn."

Marie hesitated, unsure as to how to respond. On the one hand, the fact that Lady Salisbury had acknowledged her, that she knew who she was, meant that the news that she was high in the King's favour had travelled, which might make her job easier. On the other hand, if Lady Salisbury thought she was as arrogant and loose-moraled as the Lady Blount, she might refuse to let her near the Princess Mary, which would mean she'd had a wasted journey.

In the end, Marie decided to use both her influence and her Boleyn charm to her advantage. Sinking into a deep curtsy, a curtsy that acknowledged the other woman's royal heritage, she smiled up at the older woman.

"Lady Salisbury. Good morning. I apologise for disturbing you, but I've just ridden over from the Court at Havering to visit the Princess so that I might tell His Majesty how Her Highness fares."

"You'vc come from Court? To see the Princess Mary?" For a moment, something like incredulous horror flickered across Lady Salisbury's face, but then she collected herself and nodded, "Very well, Mistress Boleyn. You'd better come up to the nursery then, though you'll have to excuse me while I prepare Her Highness to see you. She's not exactly dressed for visitors at the moment."

"That's fine, Lady Salisbury," Marie assured the older woman, and the two of them fell into step beside each other as they walked up to the nursery suite. Once there, Marie hung back, distracting herself with the tapestries in the outer room, while Lady Salisbury disappeared into an inner chamber.

Before long, however, Marie couldn't help but overhear the shrieks of protest that were coming from the other room.

"I no want see her!"

"It's 'I don't want to see her', and I'm afraid you must, Your Highness. As a Princess, you always have to be gracious, no matter how you yourself feel," Lady Salisbury's voice sounded surprisingly tired, as though she had argued this point far too often already. As indeed she probably had, judging by the way the angry roars only got louder.

"No correct me! No! I no have do anything! I Princess! I no have see Miss'es Boleyn if I no want! You not Mama, Lady Bury. You not tell me what I do!"

Lady Salisbury sighed audibly. Unable to help herself, Marie pushed open the door the elder woman had just gone through.

She barely suppressed a gasp at what she saw.

A tiny fair-haired girl was thrashing in Lady Salisbury's arms, kicking wildly as she fought to be free. If Marie hadn't known that this was the Princess Mary, she would never have guessed. The girl's long fair curls were tangled and matted, so much so that they clearly hadn't been brushed for weeks. Her dress of green velvet was crushed and crumpled, with so many stains down it that, in places, it was hard to tell that it was meant to be green at all. Her eyes were swollen with tears and glittering with anger, while her skin was rough, filthy and blotchy, the antithesis of what a Princess's skin should be.

Grateful for her courtier's training, Marie nonetheless managed to keep her face blank as she curtsied low, "My Lady Princess. So you don't want to see me, hmm? That's a shame. I've just come from Court and I was hoping to be able to tell you how your Papa was and maybe even take a message from you to him, if you'd like me to."

Lady Salisbury gasped at the informality of Marie's address, but it worked. Little Mary stilled in her arms, looking across at Marie with a new emotion in her eyes. An emotion that hadn't really been there since her mother died. Curiosity.

"Papa? You tell me about Papa?" she asked. Marie nodded, kneeling down and half-holding out her arms to the little girl, "If you like, Princess."

In seconds, the little girl had flown out of Lady Salisbury's hold and was in Marie's, nestling into her arms trustingly, looking up at her hopefully. Instinctively, Marie closed her hold around the Princess's waist, trying not to show her alarm at how thin she was. Even for a four year old, she was as light as a feather.

Carrying Her Highness over to the window, Marie sat down on the sill and began to tell her an edited version of all that had happened since she had been sent to Beaulieu.

* * *

Almost unable to bear it any longer, almost delirious with pain, Bessie pushed down one last time with a blood-curdling scream. She felt something sort of break inside her and then the child was out of her, slithering out in one great warm, bloody, slimy rush. She held her breath, collapsing with relief when she heard it cough, then start howling energetically. It lived! It lived! She had broken the King's bad luck! It lived! It lived!

"What is it?" She gasped, "Is it a boy? Do I have a boy? The King's boy? The King's acknowledged healthy boy?"


	11. XI

The silence in the room was suddenly oppressive. Henry just couldn't bear it any longer. He swung round, "I'm going to see how she is," he gasped, his voice strangled with nerves.

"Henry, wait…"Charles moved as though to intercept him, but at the exact same moment, the door swung open. Cecily Blount stood there, a wide grin on her face.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty. My sister has just given you a healthy boy."

"A boy?" Henry repeated, scarcely able to believe his ears.

"A boy," Cecily confirmed.

"A boy. I have a boy. And he lives?"

"Aye, Sire, he lives. He is likely to do so for some time. Upon my word, I've never seen a child enter the world so healthy or screaming so loudly as my sister's boy did."

Cecily's grin was wide as she spoke, but it widened still further when Henry, his face alight with joy, grabbed her, kissed her rapturously, exclaiming, "Bless you, Mistress Blount! I'll see you rewarded for this!" and then sprinted off in the direction of her sister's rooms.

She glanced at Mark, "Do you think we've won? With the King's boy in Bessie's arms, do you think we've won?"

Her mouthed words were met by a scowl. Grabbing her arm, Mark pulled her out of the room and out of the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk's hearing.

"By no means have we won, you fool! Bessie may have the King's boy, but she's not been around to keep his interest on her. It was cooling even before she went into confinement and Duchess Mary has been taking advantage of the King's solitude to throw Mistress Marie Boleyn at him left, right and centre and he hasn't exactly been saying no. He's been fawning over her the way he used to fawn over your sister. No, Cecily, this game is not over yet. It's not over until either His Majesty finds a new wife and sires a legitimate Prince of Wales or until he names Bessie's boy his heir. So for Goodness sake, get back to Bessie. Get back to Bessie and try to make sure she doesn't ruin our delicate game with her dratted pride."

Alarmed, Cecily nodded. At the look in her eyes, Mark softened, "You've done well so far, Cecily. Just don't let her ruin it now."

Cecily nodded again. She half-curtsied, then turned and ran.

* * *

"Where is he? Where is my son?" Henry burst into Bessie's apartments, catching her midwives and maids unawares. There was a flurry of shocked curtsies and respectful murmurs, "Your Majesty."

"The Lady Blount is resting," one of the girls ventured, but even as she spoke, Bessie's voice came from the next room, "Oh nonsense, Jane. Let His Majesty come in. Let him see his son."

The bevy parted like the Red Sea at Moses's command. Henry rushed across the room and into Bessie's bedchamber.

She sat up as he came in, sat up and took the child from the cradle next to her bed, holding him out for the King to hold, "Come and meet your son, Henry," she invited.

Faint warning bells rang in Henry's head as Bessie took the liberty of calling him by his Christian name without his permission, but he ignored them, choosing instead to focus on his boy. His boy!

He was perfect. Kicking energetically against his swaddling, he showed Henry a strength that not even little Mary, his sole living child to date, had shown him., His eyes were a vivid blue –as vivid as Bessie's – and his soft downy hair already had the unmistakable tinge of Tudor copper about it. Henry couldn't take his eyes off him.

"He's wonderful, Bessie, wonderful!" he murmured, awestruck, "What shall we call him?"

"Henry," Bessie's voice came back from the bed so fast that Henry knew she'd been expecting the question, "How could he have any name but his father's?"

"Henry. Henry Fitzroy," Henry murmured, trying it on to the little boy for size, "Yes, I like it. We'll call him Hal for short, like they used to call me Harry."

"He'll be another Bluff King Hal," Bessie breathed, scarcely aware of what she was saying. It took a moment, but when her words pierced the fog of elation that clouded Henrys' brain, he looked sharply at her, "He can't be my heir, Bessie. He'll be brought up with all the honour that befits a King's son, but he can't be my heir. You know that."

"And why not? You're the King! Surely you can designate anyone you wish to be your heir!"

Bessie knew she was pushing her luck, but she couldn't help it. She had Hal to fight for now. Thrusting herself back up on her pillows, she glared at the King. "I gave you a boy, Henry! A beautiful healthy boy! What more can you want of me?! Hal's your eldest son; of course he can be your heir!"

"Not in the eyes of the law!"

"Then marry me! Marry me and gain your heir in the same ceremony! God knows John of Gaunt did it with Katherine Swynford, why can't you do the same with me?!"

"Enough!" Henry roared, startling his son as anger coursed through him. How dare Bessie presume to tell him what to do? He was the King of England! "Enough!"

Suddenly, fear sparked in Bessie's heart. Had she pushed him too far, too fast? She bowed her head silently.

Henry saw her do it and made a colossal effort to pull himself together. She was young. And she'd been through a lot. Of course he'd have to make allowances for her, especially just now. if she was anything like Cata, her emotions would be all over the place after giving birth.

Placing his now crying son back in the bassinet, he offered her a smile, "You've done well, Elizabeth. I'll visit you again later, when you're not so tired. When you're a little more yourself."

"Give me Hal," she begged, holding out her arms for the child, "He's probably hungry."

"Then give him to his wet nurse. It's beneath a King's sweetheart to feed her own child."

He kept his voice steady so as not to upset her and even stroked her hair briefly, "I'll come back later," he promised, before striding from the room.

* * *

Cecily saw the King leaving her sister's rooms and quickened her pace, hoping to waylay him. Too late. He was gone. And by the set of his shoulders, he wasn't best pleased about something. Oh God. What had Bessie said? Please God she hadn't thought herself invincible with His Majesty's son in her arms. Please God they were still able to fix this.

Cecily hurried into Bessie's rooms, eager to find out the extent of the damage.

* * *

Marie rode back into the courtyard at Havering, only to be greeted by a volley of joyful gunfire that almost threw her from her horse. George, who had clearly been watching out for her, ran forward and caught at the animal's bridle to steady it as she slid down from the saddle.

"The King has his son, then?" she said, by way of greeting. George nodded.

"Just three hours ago. Henry Fitzroy, they're calling him."

"I must go and join the celebrations. As must you, brother. I'll just run up and change."

"Aye, but be careful, Marie. His Majesty noticed your absence earlier and he wasn't pleased."

"Right. Thanks for the warning, brother. I'll bear it in mind."

Marie blew her brother a kiss and raced indoors. Not twenty minutes later, now attired in a gown of rose-coloured satin embroidered with tiny crystals, she was circling the Hall, a cup of mead in one hand.

All of a sudden, a hand shot out and captured her wrist. It was the King, his drunken, bloodshot eyes hardening with a mixture of desire and loathing as he pulled her tight against his body, spilling her mead as he did so.

"Where have you been?" he slurred, "I sent for you earlier and you weren't here. Where were you?"

"Your Majesty – I -" Mary started. She never got a chance to finish her sentence. As abruptly as he had pulled her to him, the King thrust her away.

"Do you know what, Marie, never mind. I don't want to know. I don't want to spoil tonight by fighting. Just get out of my sight."

"But…Your Majesty…"

"Get out of my sight." The King stalked away, leaving Marie, shaken and confused, to stare after his retreating back, her words of congratulation dying on her lips.

* * *

"What have you done?! Daughter, what have you done?! One day he was virtually bowing and scraping before you, now he won't so much as look in your direction. What have you done?!"

"I don't know! Papa, I really don't know!" Marie was almost in tears as her father shook her violently.

"Well you must have done something. Don't play the fool with me, girl. I don't have time for it. I'm leaving for Paris with the Earl of Derby at the end of the week and I don't want to leave a useless, past her best favourite behind me. I thought your years in France would have taught you better than that. Come on, out with it!"

He raised his hand and Marie cowered away from him, cringing in the face of his fury. Unexpectedly, however, her uncle spoke before the savage blow could fall.

"Thomas. It's not as bad as it could be. At least the King hasn't retreated into the Lady Blount's arms. And the child's made him sentimental. If she plays her cards right, the girl might yet win him back to her."

Marie stared at her uncle as he defended her. He turned to meet her gaze, eyes like granite.

"You'll waylay him after Mass tomorrow. You'll beg his forgiveness for whatever it is you did that offended him. On bended knee if need be. You'll assure him of your undying loyalty and tell him that, whatever you did, you only did it because you had his best interests at heart. Whether or not that is the truth, I don't care. You'll say it anyway. And for Christ's sake, make sure you look innocent. Understand?"

Marie nodded vigorously. Thomas Howard allowed himself the faintest glimmer of a smile at her obedience.

"Good. Then get yourself out of here. Go on!"

Marie needed no second urging. She picked up her skirts and ran.

* * *

Henry was just coming out of Mass the next morning when Mistress Marie fell to her knees in front of him.

"Your Majesty, I humbly beg your pardon for having displeased you. I know now that I should never have presumed to do anything such as visit Her Highness at Beaulieu without Your Grace's permission, especially not at a time when Your Majesty needed me so, but I beseech Your Majesty to remember that I never wanted to abuse the favour that you so graciously bestow upon me. I acted only out of the impulsive kindness of a young girl's heart and can only hope that Your Grace will realise that I only desired to see you reconciled with your daughter because I saw it as my Christian duty to reach out in kindness to a motherless child such as the Princess Mary and smile upon me for it."

Henry looked down upon her golden head as it was bent in supplication. He had meant to stay angry at her, but how could he when she begged so abjectly for his forgiveness? And she had been acting out of kindness, hadn't she? She'd been thinking of others besides herself; of his little girl, his little Pearl. It was more than Bessie had ever done. She'd even been jealous when he spent too much time with his own sister, for God's sake! Marie, on the other hand, clearly wouldn't mind that. She didn't seek to rule him, but rather let him command her, as Cata had always done. It was obvious which of the two, Bessie or Marie, cared for him more. Which of them cared for him in the way that Cata had done.

"Marie, look at me." He spoke gently, waving the others around them away. She raised her head a fraction, showing him the tears that were swimming in her eyes and threatening to spill over on to her dove-grey damask.

At the sight of them, a stab of guilt went through Henry. How could he ever have made this beauty cry? Hadn't he promised to be her Knight Gallant until London melted into the Thames? Knights Gallant didn't make their damsels cry.

He reached down to slide his palm under her chin.

"Did you truly do what you thought was best for me? On your own account? No one put you up to it?"

"No, Sire. I acted purely on my own foolish whim. Indeed, my brother George tried to stop me. He warned me that you would not like it." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"Yet you still did it?"

She bobbed her head, the tears on her lashes quivering dangerously.

"How can I argue with a sense of duty as keen as that?" Putting his hand under her shoulder blades, Henry helped Marie up, "You're a blessing to my Court and to my life, Mistress Marie. What boon would you ask of me? Ask, and, if it is within my power to do so, I shall grant it. A heart as innocent and caring as yours cannot go unrewarded."

"Anything, Sire?"

"Grant me permission to visit the Princess Mary at Beaulieu whenever I so desire."

"Granted," Henry laughed in surprise. He'd been expecting her to ask for a new dress or some jewels, like Bessie would have done. After all, wasn't that what all women liked?

"And say you'll come with me. Mary would love to see her Papa again."

Henry hesitated. The last time he'd seen Mary, she'd only been two, but already blossoming into a little copy of her mother. Katherine. Could he put himself through that pain?

"Please, Sire," Marie's voice was desperate, pleading. She slid her arms about his waist and peeped up at him, pleading.

Oh, how could he ever resist those eyes? And he'd promised her anything he could grant.

"Tell me when you want to go," he sighed, bending his head to find her lips with his.


	12. XII

Lady Salisbury listened to the happy giggles coming from Princess Mary's nursery and smiled to herself. Mistress Boleyn had been good for His Majesty after all. Unlike his previous mistresses, Mistress Boleyn had taken an interest in more than just what the King could do for her and her own. She'd encouraged him to face his fears and his grief by visiting the Princess with her and, while the first visits had been difficult, every single time the King came – though he still didn't come alone, Lady Salisbury noted – his relationship with his little daughter improved visibly.

And that, in turn, had been good for Her Highness. True, there had been tears and tantrums both before and after the first few visits, plus the fact that she had injured His Majesty's pride by running into Mistress Marie's arms yet treating him with the same diffidence she did all other strangers because she hadn't recognised him, but those were just teething problems. Two, three months down the line, they were all much happier together. As was shown by the fact that the Princess no longer refused visitors, would now eat a full meal without making more than minimum amount of fuss and consented to at least being dressed and changed as many times as was necessary to keep her looking like a Princess. She'd reverted to the fairly easy child that Lady Salisbury remembered from her first weeks as the Royal governess, when Lady Bryan had been replaced so that she might take over the charge of the newest Prince or Princess.

Taking up an armful of linens that needing mending, Lady Salisbury glanced into the play room to see Marie kneeling in the centre of the room, counting aloud.

Ah. Hide and seek. Her Highness's favourite game. The one she forced all the attendants to play…especially when she didn't want to do something she was supposed to.

As if she knew Lady Salisbury was watching her, Marie turned her head and the two of them shared a smile before the elder woman turned away, leaving the three of them in peace.

Marie, meanwhile, twisted back around, shutting her eyes and returning to her part in the game. She finished counting and got to her feet.

"Here I come, ready or not," she warned softly, before hunting through the room for her two playmates.

She found the King easily enough – his height and breadth made it difficult for him to hide satisfactorily, at least in a room cut down to the size of his four year old daughter – but Mary remained elusive.

"Can't find her?" Henry asked, after a while of watching her search fruitlessly.

"No. I don't know where the little vixen has got to," Marie admitted, turning to face him as he came up behind and encircled her waist with one arm. He cupped her cheek in one hand and seemed on the point of saying something, when Mary suddenly exploded out of Lady Salisbury's empty mending chest, "Here I am, Mama!"

Marie had been a second away from sweeping the Princess up into her embrace, but she checked at her words.

"Your Highness…" she began, but King Henry cut her off, "Did I hear you call Mistress Boleyn Mama, Mary? Would you like her to be your Mama?"

"Oh, yes, Papa!" Mary cried, burrowing against Marie's skirts, "She's everything a Mama ought to be!"

"I agree, Mary, I agree," the King chuckled, ruffling his little daughter's hair, then dropping to one knee beside her, holding out an emerald ring to Marie. A ring he appeared to have conjured out of nowhere.

"So, Mistress Boleyn, will you do me the honour? Of becoming, not only my wife, but Mary's mother and my Queen?"

Marie stared down at him, speechless. She felt as though she was in a dream. When she'd refused to sleep with the King the first time he'd asked her, she'd never dreamed it would come to this; didn't ever dare to believe – to even hope – that one day, she'd see the King of England down on his knees to her, begging her to become his wife. Yet it had. She was.

Mary's little hands tugging on her skirts brought her out of her trance.

"Oh, please say yes, Marie, please!"

Marie couldn't answer her; couldn't answer them. She opened her mouth to speak and, all of a sudden, tears welled up. Choking them back, she tore herself away from Mary's clingy hands, raced, half-blind, for the door, fumbled it open and fled. Fled to the peace of the Beaulieu gardens.

* * *

Henry found her there not half an hour later.

Sliding on to the stone bench beside her, he put his arms around her, curving them tenderly about her waist and held her. He said nothing, only held her as she wept.

Only once the passionate storm had begun to abate did he attempt words.

"Why are you crying, darling? I'm not sure many men are met with a flood of tears when they propose, you know."

She tried to respond to his teasing with a smile, but failed miserably, "Because I love you," she sobbed.

"What?! But…"

"I love you and I want to marry you so so badly, but I can't."

"Why not? I'm the King, I can marry whom I please."

"No you can't. I'm not good enough to be Your Grace's bride. Kings marry Princesses, not Knight's daughters. And even if I was good enough, there's Bessie Blount to be thought of. And her boy. It's not even three months since the lad was born. What will people think if Your Majesty turns around and marries me now?"

"Marie, darling, stop. Stop. First off, you must call me Henry and secondly, you mustn't worry about all this. I can solve all these problems."

"Really?" Her voice was thin, shaky. Looking at her, Henry realised how young she still was. Barely nineteen. Even younger than Bessie. Almost young enough to be his sister Margaret's daughter. He rubbed her back soothingly.

"Of course. Am I not the King of England? I can give titles to anyone I please. It will be the easiest thing in the world to decide the Ormonde dispute in your father's favour. That will leave you the Lady Marie and also release you from your understanding with the Butler boy. You were never precontracted, were you?"

"No, not officially. Our fathers could never agree on the finer details of the marriage contract."

"Well, then. All's clear on that score. And as for my son, well, I'll marry Bessie off to some minor Lord or other, dower her generously and then forget about the both of them. You needn't concern yourself with him. God knows I won't."

"No! You mustn't say that, Henry!" Marie exclaimed, startling them both, "You mustn't! The boy's your son! He's got your blood in his veins. He deserves better than to be fobbed off as some minor Lord's adopted heir."

Despite himself, Henry chuckled, "Bless you, Marie. Already acting as England's mother before you've even agreed to marry me."

"Oh, but I will. Do this for me and I will."

"There's the answer I was hoping for," Henry breathed, leaning in to steal a kiss from her.

* * *

" _Dearest Annie,_

_I don't know how much you've heard of this over in Paris, but much has happened here in England since I last wrote. To start with the family news, I suppose you must know that Papa is to be recalled from Paris and invested as Earl of Ormonde and Viscount Rochford, which means I shall never marry James, of course. Ostensibly, this ennoblement is as thanks for his years of diplomatic service, but it's not really. Oh that I could tell you the real reason! Unfortunately, I have been sworn to secrecy, so you'll just have to wait and find out through official dispatches like everybody else._

_Of course, Papa's ennoblement isn't the only thing pending here at Richmond. King Henry's bastard by the Lady Blount is to become Duke of Richmond and Somerset and Earl of Nottingham. Not even three months old and he is to become one of the premier noblemen in England. Some people say it's a farewell present for the Lady Blount and that she will be married off as soon as a suitable husband can be found; others that the King intends to marry her and make young Hal Fitzroy his heir and that this is but a first step to that. Everyone here at Court waits with bated breath to see who is correct. Some know, of course, but are too loyal to His Majesty to say._

_Anyway, how are you, my dearest sister? How is life in France? Busy, I presume, since you've scarcely written since Christmas, except for a hasty note for my birthday. Take care of yourself and do write soon._

_Meanwhile, I remain, as ever,_

_Your sister Marie."_

* * *

" _Marie,_

_You can't leave your note at that, you vixen! You know I hate it when you tantalise me so, I always have. Either tell me properly or don't tell me at all, mon dieu! But you guessed right, I did know that Papa was to be called back to London and made Earl of Ormonde. How could I not? He was cock-a-hoop when the news came from London. Honestly, I'll be relieved when he finally sails. If nothing else, I need a respite before he's back here, breathing down my neck like the dragon we all know he is._

_I only hope the rest of the Embassy stays here. There is a young man in the party, Henry Percy, who is 'tres charmant', as we French say. Madame Marguerite says he's much taken with me and while I don't know whether to believe her, it is true I enjoy his company at balls and feasts and the like. I look forward to getting to know him better once Papa is gone and can't always remind me to act as befits the Lady Anne Rochford. Mon dieu! As if I haven't had the best example of courtly behaviour I could possibly have in Madame Marguerite!_

_But now I am growing careless and ungrateful in what I have to say, and the hour grows late and my candle short, so I shall end my letter here. God be with you, ma soeur. God and my blessings._

_A toi pour toujours,_

_Anna_


	13. XIII

"It is His Majesty's pleasure, on this, the third day of July in the eleventh year of his reign, Anno Domini 1520, to create thee, Sir Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Ormonde and Viscount Rochford," the herald announced. A respectful hush filled the small chamber in Woodstock Palace where the ceremony was taking place. Thomas Boleyn remained kneeling, his head dutifully bowed but anyone standing between him and the head of the room would have seen the small, satisfied smile flit on to his face at the herald's words. The Ormonde title, his birthright, was his at last. Perhaps it was just as well that nothing had come of Mary's – or Marie's, as the silly chit insisted on calling herself now – suggested betrothal to Piers's boy. Her dowry would have been wasted, whereas now he could use it to secure a more glittering match for her. A Talbot, perhaps, or a Neville.

With these thoughts in his mind, it was no wonder Thomas Boleyn was smiling one of his very rare smiles. Henry saw his smile, but said nothing. To see his Marie's relations smile made him smile, so he merely returned the new Earl's smile with a blazing one of his own as he came down off his throne.

"Arise, Lord Ormonde," he beamed, taking the older man by the hands and helping him up before draping the robes of state about his slender frame and the Earl's coronet on his head. turning, he took the beribboned scroll into his own hands and caressed it briefly before handing it over.

"The patent of your nobility, Lord Ormonde," he said, a generous note creeping into his voice.

"Majesty," Thomas bowed slightly, then stepped back as Mark Blount appeared at the other end of the room, a three month old infant wriggling in his arms. He came forward, then knelt on the cushion before the dais, careful not to lose his grip on the babe as he sank to his knees.

The herald stepped forward, unrolled another beribboned scroll and began all over again, "It is His Majesty's pleasure, on this, the third day of July in the eleventh year of his reign, Anno Domini 1520, to create thee, Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset and Earl of Nottingham."

Henry motioned to Mark to rise, took the child out of his arms, kissed the tiny cheek tenderly, then wrapped his son in a specially cut down ducal mantle, before touching a minute ducal coronet to the lad's downy reddish-blonde hair.

The baby whimpered at the unexpected weight, a whimper that turned into full-blown crying as Henry, cupping his son's hand with his own, helped him hold the patent of his nobility and the sword of his new office, swung him round to face the crowd and they all burst into sycophantic applause as he declared, "My Lords and Ladies, His Grace the Duke of Richmond and Somerset!"

Bessie Tailboys  _nee_  Blount, the new Baroness Tailboys, clapped along with the others, though her heart was torn open at the sound of her son's distressed cries.

She might not have fed him from her own breast, but she still loved him. He was still her son; her little baby boy and she longed to catch him up in her arms and soothe and protect him. Soothe his current fears; protect him from his future responsibilities, responsibilities far too heavy for a child so young.

Tears welled in her eyes and she was grateful when her neighbour surreptitiously passed her a handkerchief, "Is everything all right, Lady Tailboys?"

"He just seems so young for such a great responsibility. And I'm afraid he'll be taken from me, given his own household and forget his Mama, "Bessie sniffed, "A woman's foolishness, I know." As she spoke, she tried to collect herself and paste a smile on to her face for the benefit of those watching. This was Hal's day, she reminded herself. Hal's. She had to be happy for him, whatever her own feelings. Yet, when her neighbour placed a reassuring arm about her shoulders, she couldn't help but lean into it.

"It's not mere foolishness, Lady Tailboys. I assure you, it's not. His Grace is extremely young for such elevated titles. But don't worry. He shan't be taken away from you. Not yet, at any rate. I'll ensure that he isn't."

Bessie's heart leapt at her companion's words, "Oh, bless you! Bless you!" she whispered fervently and would have turned her head to see who it was, but, at that precise moment, her companion withdrew their arm from her shoulders and melted away into the crowd. All Bessie had a chance to glimpse was a swirl of pale rose taffeta and a flash of golden hair before her comforter was gone, leaving Bessie with nothing to do but wonder who she had been speaking to.

* * *

On the other side of the Hall, Thomas Boleyn caught sight of a tall, slenderly built man, who was standing alone. He looked across at him, sizing him up. William Courtenay, the Earl of Devon. A valuable ally to have, perhaps, given that he had married a York Princess. His children were cousins to the King. Yet that same marriage had brought him into disgrace. Not enough disgrace to lose his title, but enough disgrace that he might be open to an alliance, even if that alliance was with the newest-risen family at Court.

Going over to him, Thomas called for wine and placed the goblet into his hand, "You look like you need it, Lord Devon," was all he said, as the other man looked to him in surprise.

"Thank you, but shouldn't you be celebrating? His Majesty has just honoured you most highly, Lord Ormonde. You ought to be showing him your gratitude."

"Aye, and I will, Lord Devon. But I fear my rise will not be as gleefully celebrated by some as the King and I would like."

"What do you mean?" William looked across at Thomas, who raised an eyebrow and placed a arm around his shoulders.

"Come, Lord Devon, we both know all too well what I mean. There are some in this Court who believe I have risen too far, too fast; that I owe my title to the King's love for my daughter and not for my own merit. There are some in this Court who believe I am not worthy of them."

"I assure you, Lord Ormonde, that if His Majesty believes you worthy, then so do I. I know what it is like to live in the shadow of one taint or another." William sighed, unable to stop himself. He loved Catherine, he truly did. But their marriage had got him into trouble and now he was still paying the price. He couldn't provide for her as she ought to be provided for, not with half the Court treating him like a traitor for marrying a York Princess, when all he'd ever hoped to do was to not only marry the girl he loved, but also keep the late King happy by binding her to him in marriage so that she couldn't be a threat to him. He hadn't thought as far as the royal blood his children would have. In his foolishness, he hadn't thought that far, and now he was paying for it, dearly.

At the sigh, Thomas knew he had the Earl of Devon right where he wanted him. He was so desperate to prove himself; to reverse the shadow that hung over his name, he probably would have made an alliance with anyone.

He said nothing of these suspicions, of course. All he said was, "It is good to know that someone else at Court feels the same way I do."

"I do. If only there were some way we could rid ourselves of the feeling."

"We can."

William stared at Thomas in astonishment. "We can?" he repeated stupidly. Thomas nodded, his voice silky smooth as he took the other man's arm.

"My daughter has the ear of the King; you know that as well as I. Who knows what influence she might exert, given time? Who knows how we might rise, if we work together?"

"Work together?" The Earl of Devon said slowly, and Thomas bit the inside of his cheek in impatience. Had he not needed this man so desperately, he would have left him standing and gone in search of cleverer allies.

"You have a daughter, do you not?"

"Yes, Margaret. She'll be nineteen this coming September."

"Why, she's merely few months younger than my Marie! Marie was nineteen just this past April. And Marie has a brother. George."

Thomas hesitated and William Courtenay walked straight into the trap. "How old's your boy? He must be a fine knight, if his sister and father are any indication of the Boleyn family."

"I'm glad to hear you say it, Lord Devon. That is a great compliment, thank you. George is about to be sixteen."

"Just three years younger than my Margaret."

"Yes."

The two men stood in silence, until, judging he had left it long enough for his words to sink in, Thomas pressed his point home, "What do you say, Lord Devon? Shall we work together? Will you join forces with me to clear our names of the shadow of unworthiness that taints them?

* * *

Henry woke Brandon with a hand on his shoulder, grateful that he and Mary still didn't share a bed, on Doctor Linacre's orders in view of the difficult time Mary had had birthing little Nell. True, Nell was nine months old now, but Mary had apparently declared that four pregnancies in as many years was enough for now and temporarily banished Charles from her bed. Normally, Henry was irritated to see his sister being indulged in denying her husband his conjugal rights, but tonight, he was grateful for it.

"Charles. With me. Now. Wake Anthony and come with me," he breathed.

Charles stirred groggily, "Your Majesty…What?"

"No questions. Just come."

Henry turned and hurried out of the room, hearing with slight relief the sound of Charles cursing and swinging himself out of bed.

Within the next quarter of an hour, the three men were saddled up and trotting through the woods to the chapel in the grounds. To the others' surprise, Henry drew rein and dismounted. As Charles and Anthony did the same, exchanging bemused looks, three shapes moved in the shadows, stepping forward and boldly flinging back their hoods, revealing themselves to be Lady Marie and her two closest confidantes at the English Court, Lady Sarah and Mistress Joanna.

"Sire," the three whispered, curtsying. Henry strode across to Marie immediately, pulling her up before she sank too low, kissing her fiercely.

"Marie, my love. You have the priest?"

"Aye, Sire, my father's chaplain, Matthew Parker. He is trustworthy and, to tell you the truth, there's not a man in England I'd rather be married by."

"He won't tell your father?"

"Not until the deed is done, which is the important part."

"Good. Then come."

Henry took Marie on his arm and swept into the chapel with her, leaving the others to follow. Charles took Lady Sarah on his arm and escorted her in, his mind reeling from what he had just heard. Henry wasn't really going to marry the Boleyn girl, was he?

* * *

Before their witnesses' astonished eyes, Henry and Lady Marie exchanged first rings – silver ones set with emeralds and diamonds – then vows and finally a kiss to seal the union.

Their lips met, long and hungry. When they finally broke apart, Henry kept one of his hands on Marie's cheek and found her waist with the other as he spun her to face their witnesses.

"I give you Queen Mary of England," he whispered, his voice echoing in the dimly lit chapel. The four in the witnesses' pews automatically sank into obeisance, their minds still struggling to process what had just occurred in front of their very eyes.

Henry ushered Marie to the door, calling over his shoulder, "Go back to bed, the lot of you. Get back to bed and say nothing of what you have seen tonight until I say you can."

Turning to Marie as they reached the door of the chapel, he paused for a moment to take in what she was wearing; how she had attired herself for this, the most important event of her life. The sight of her took his breath away.

Her amber-coloured gown was of velvet, to ward off the night-time chill, and simply cut, but it had a low enough neckline to offer a tempting glimpse of her breasts as he pulled her closer. Her hair, often hailed as her crowning glory, fell in a shimmering curtain past her waist and her only adornment, a simple double band of amber and crystal at her temple, glittered in the light of the full moon.

God, she was beautiful. In that moment, Henry had never been so grateful that she had refused to become his mistress the way Bessie had done. It had been worth the wait to be able to possess her both utterly and legally.

"I can't wait to have you," he murmured huskily as he boosted her into the saddle.

The last person to see the King and his new Queen that night was the Boleyn chaplain, Matthew Parker, who, upon leaving the chapel by the side door, caught sight of their silhouettes as they galloped off into the dark of the night.

* * *

Back in London, Cardinal Wolsey had sat up half the night, reading dispatches and making notes as to how he wanted to respond to them, as well as answering long-standing petitions. He was dog-tired, but as he switched his attention to the latest packet of papers from France, the contents made it all worthwhile.

King Francis had agreed to the marriage of his sister Marguerite to King Henry, once the former's mourning period was fully over. What's more, he'd promised to cede, not only the Pale of Calais – long fought over by the French and the English – but also the County of Anjou to Wolsey's master as part of his sister's dowry. All he asked in return was a free trading charter for all ships under French protection and that his sister be granted the revenues from three towns of middling size for her own use to ensure that she would continue to be a woman of means even if King Henry were to predecease her. Wolsey could not have dreamed of better terms. It was high time he closed the negotiations, persuaded King Henry to ratify the treaty and brought his deputation home.

If he was lucky, England would have a new Queen before the year was out.


	14. XIV

Cardinal Wolsey didn't often ride a horse. He preferred to be carried in a litter, with the curtains drawn back so that everyone could see him. However, litters were painfully slow and this treaty couldn't wait. Because of that, he forced himself to overcome his scruples and ride out from London to join the Court at Tutbury.

Only to find that the King would have nothing to do with the matter at all.

"You dare go behind my back! You dare gamble away my hand in marriage as though I am no more than a pawn in chess and not a person with desires and feelings of my own?! You dare! Well, let me tell you,  _Your Eminence,_  that I will stand for this arrogance not a second longer! You will write to your envoys in Paris telling them that I refuse to ratify this treaty and suggesting one where my daughter Mary is wed to King Francis's second son, the Duke of Orleans instead. And then you will relinquish your London estates to the Crown and retire to your estates in York. Count yourself I'm no harsher. Go!"

"But Your Majesty… Can't you even consider…"

"No, fool! I'm already married!"

Wolsey couldn't hide his shock. "Married?! To whom?"

"The Lady Marie Rochford."

"Lady Marie?! Your Majesty, I beg you, please reconsider! This union is most foolish!"

"I married once to please my country and got nothing but grief for my pains. Now I marry to please myself. The Lady Marie will be the finest Queen England has known since Philippa of Hainault, I'm sure of it. I will hear nothing against her, do you hear? Now go! Get out of my sight! Count yourself lucky I'm no harsher and go!"

Faced with the King's fury, Wolsey had no choice but to bow out of the room and do as he was told.

* * *

Wolsey's conversation with the King might have come to naught as far as Wolsey was concerned, but it did have one far-reaching consequence. Eager to avoid any more unwelcome discussions about his marriage prospects, Henry had Archbishop Warham proclaim his marriage to the Earl of Ormonde's daughter, Lady Marie Rochford, throughout the land. In early August, he also had her processed before the Court as their new Queen Mary at Pontefract Castle in Yorkshire.

"You'll be crowned as soon as we get back to London this September," he whispered to her, watching with delight as, clothed in a newly sumptuous gown of cloth of silver trimmed with purple velvet ribbon, she accepted the homage being paid to her by the nobles as though she'd been doing it all her life.

" _Yes,_ " Henry thought,  _"I made the right choice in Marie. She might be young, but she's taken to this life like a duck to water. Looking at her, you'd never guess that her father was any less than a Duke. France turned her into a young woman fit to be Queen."_

"Why?" Marie's murmured question brought him out of his musings. He started and looked across at her.

"What's that, darling?"

"Why do I have to wait until we get to London? Can't I be crowned in York or Newcastle instead of London?"

"But it's tradition that all England's Queens are crowned from the Tower. Why don't you want to wait? Are you that eager to be crowned?" A note of something unpleasant crept into Henry's voice. Why did Marie want to be crowned so quickly? Had she only married him for the power of the Crown, despite her protestations to the contrary? But no. She couldn't have done. She was too sweet a girl for that.

As though she could read his flicker of misgivings, Marie reached across and took his hand, "Of course I'm not. I'll do whatever you think best in the end. But I just meant…Katherine was so loved up here. She's still so grieved, even almost two years later. Wouldn't it be really something to give the Northerners a day of Royal joy to celebrate, so that they could make a fresh start? Come to terms with what has happened more completely than they already have?"

She turned her big blue-grey eyes on him and Henry felt his heart melt. Despite himself, he could see the sense in what she said. Yet, how could he deny her the traditionally lavish coronation that all the Queens before her had had? That his first – that Katherine had had? It was the least he could do for her. After the hurried secrecy of their wedding, a lavish coronation was the least he could do for her.

He hesitated and while he was hesitating, the herald banged his staff on the floor, "The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk!"

Every eye in the room – Henry and Marie's included – flicked to the doors. There, resplendent in matching outfits of navy blue satin, stood Charles Brandon and his wife Mary, Henry's sister.

They advanced towards the dais and everyone held their breath. It was common knowledge that the Duchess of Suffolk had loved Katherine of Aragon passionately; had hated Bessie Blount just as fiercely as she had loved the late Queen. And this was her own former Lady in Waiting. How on Earth would she react?

Those who thought she might fly into a rage – and there were more than a few, it had to be said – had underestimated the strength of Mary Brandon's regal poise and self-control.

Keeping her face poker-straight, she dropped into a rigid curtsy beside her bowing husband, "Your Majesty. My Lady Queen."

"Mary, sister," Henry answered, rising to kiss her, relieved she hadn't kicked up a fuss, "It pleases us to see you join us this evening. You and Charles must dine with us at the top table."

"If it pleases you, Sire," Mary replied coolly, hesitating for the merest fraction of a second – so briefly that it was hard to know if she really had hesitated at all. She took her assigned place beside the Queen and signed for a tumbler of wine.

As she drank it, the watching crowd couldn't help murmuring in amazement at how calmly she was behaving. Had she truly accepted her brother's choice of wife? It seemed impossible. If there was one thing Mary Brandon nee Tudor was keen on, it was status. Love or not, many believed she'd never have married her current husband at all, had he not been a Duke. Yet, here she was, treating a mere Earl's daughter as though she had every right to be Queen. What had happened? Had she lost her senses? Or had she merely accepted what she knew she could not change?

* * *

Privately, Mary had done neither. In fact, even mere minutes before she had been due to make her appearance for dinner, she had been railing against her husband the Duke of Suffolk.

"This is all your fault!" she screeched, flinging a glass of wine at him.

"My fault?! How is it my fault?!" he exclaimed, jumping aside out of the way.

"You took him whoring!" A silver goblet made its way towards his head.

"You let him fall for Bessie Blount!" An expensive bronze paperweight shaped like a stag.

"You threw Marie at him! She went into his arms on your orders," Charles reminded her, chancing a step forward, then falling back as all three of a venomous glare, a dangerous snarl of fury and a heavy candelabra – candles and all – flew towards him.

"Only because of Bessie! And anyway, he wasn't meant to marry her! If you hadn't witnessed the wedding, he couldn't have done! It wouldn't have been legal!"

A leather-bound Bible spun through the air. He ducked, then, as she searched the room for something else to hurl at him, dashed forward and grabbed hold of her, shaking her by the shoulders.

"Enough!" He roared. "Enough! You're making a fool of yourself!"

"And you three are making a fool out of the whole of England!"

"No, we're making her King happy, which is more than you seem to be able to appreciate or want to do!"

Mary suddenly froze in his arms, as though her furious energy had been sucked out of her by his words.

"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you, Charles! You know I care for my brother more than anything."

"Really?" Charles scoffed. When she didn't answer, he sighed, loosening his grip on her, though he still didn't let her go completely. "Then you will forget about this French marriage and you will go out there and bend the knee to young Lady Marie as though nothing gives you greater pleasure. Do I make myself clear?"

"But…"

"Do I make myself clear? Do you understand, Mary, that if you don't do it, I'll make you rue the day you were born?"

With a final shake, he released her and, ten minutes later, they were walking into the Great Hall.

* * *

Mary Brandon wasn't the only one furious at the news of King Henry's new Queen, however. when King Francis found out, he too gave the unfortunate men standing before him a tongue-lashing they would never forget.

"What is this?! I offer my 'brother' the finest terms I can think of – better terms than even my own Council thought wise – I offer him Calais and Anjou and yet now I find that he never wanted this marriage in the first place. That he has jilted my sister for a commoner for no better reason than lust! Now I realise that he may not be as persuasive towards unwilling ladies as I am, but still. He should have forgotten her. Yet he does not. And then he has the gall – the  _Gall_  – to suggest that my son marry his daughter instead of him marrying my sister! To demand that I settle Anjou on her as part of her jointure! Anjou! The town – nay, the county – that he would have had anyway, had he married my sister. No, my Lords, I will never accept this! I will never accept Marie Rochford as Queen of England, nor will I accept this proposed treaty! Ever!"

"My Lord," The Earl of Derby began. Francis cut him off with a withering look.

"Save your breath. I don't want to hear another word."

"But…Majeste…"

"Silence Boleyn! How dare you show your face in here? It is your daughter Henry has jilted my sister for!  _Mon Dieu,_  when I think of how you must have been laughing behind my back all through these negotiations, it makes me ill! You can go back to England and tell your master than I will never accept either his choice of Queen or his treaty. Indeed, you can tell him that, unless he puts Lady Marie aside and accepts his betrothal to my sister before the month is out, it will be war! War! War!"

King Francis was puce with rage. The English Ambassadors had no choice but to bow their way out of the room. As they left, they heard King Francis bellow after them, "And never let me see or hear of your being here again, Lord Ormonde!"

* * *

Anne was sitting at Marguerite's feet, playing her lute for her, as she so often did. The older woman had her hands resting on Anne's head, teasing the ebony curls between her tapered fingers. The moment was peaceful, one more suited to a mother and daughter than a Duchess and her maid. Yet no one thought anything of it. La Petite Boleynette was, and always had been, Madame Marguerite's favourite, her little pet. If Madame Marguerite wanted to treat her like a daughter, then the rest of the Court would simply look the other way. That was how things were done with the King of France's sister.

The moment was rudely shattered, however, when the doors crashed open and King Francis stormed in.

"Out! All of you!"

No one wanted to defy that order by delaying. Without even a glance at their mistress, Marguerite's ladies leapt to their feet and scuttled out of the room.

Except Anne. Used to being the only one Marguerite allowed to attend her in the King's presence – indeed, used to being one of the King's favourites as well as one of his sister's, she got only slowly to her feet, unsure if she should obey his order or hover in case either he or his sister needed anything.

King Francis noticed her hesitation and looked at her coldly, "You too, Mademoiselle," he barked.

Starting, Anne snatched up her lute and scurried from the room, desperate to hide the tears that pricked at her eyes as the King of France spoke to her so sharply. She pulled the door to behind her, but, at the last second, curiosity overtook her and she left it just a fraction ajar. She leaned in just in time to hear Madame Marguerite defending her to her brother.

" _Francois, you shouldn't have been so harsh on her. Anna is little more than a child. She only wanted to stay and attend us as she should."_

" _She might be a child, but she's an English child. You do realise she's the younger sister of the girl Henri jilted you for?"_

" _Bien sur, but..."_

" _There's an end to it then. You can't treat her the way you used to. She's not a motherless little girl anymore, she's a political pawn. Who knows who she serves now?"_

" _Francois, surely you can't mean...My Anna? Never? She'd never betray me like that!"_

" _Her Father's a snake, Marguerite, as hungry for power as a Falcon is for prey. I wouldn't put it past him to think it useful to have his daughter in such a privileged position of trust in your household."_

Anne didn't wait to hear any more. Her heart felt as though it had been torn in two, even though, rationally, she knew King Francis was over-exaggerating in his anger. She was loyal to Madame Marguerite and hr knew it. To hear him suggesting anything else cut her to the quick. Picking up her skirts, she ran for the privacy of her room, half-blind with tears.

As she went, she cursed God and all the Saints in Heaven for making her an Englishwoman and not French by blood. If she'd been French by blood, none of this would ever have happened!

* * *

The news that the Earls of Derby and Ormonde had been thrown out of King Francis's Audience Chamber like a pair of mangy strays spread through the Palace of Fontainebleu like wildfire. Before long, even the Earl of Ormonde's younger daughter, Lady Anne, whom he had tried to shield from it, was discussing it in hushed, worried whispers, with her new confidant, Lord Percy, the most junior member of the embassy and heir to the Earldom of Northumberland.

"Where does this leave me, Harry?" she sighed, taking off her hood and running her fingers through her hair distractedly, "I look upon Duchess Marguerite as the mother I've never known, but now I'm sister to England's new Queen; to the woman she's been jilted for. Can I still be her bold little Boleynette, or am I her enemy now? King Francis certainly seemed to think so, judging by the way he ordered me out of her rooms the other day."

"Why are you asking me?" Harry Percy leaned back against the fountain they were standing by, fanned his hands and gave a light half-shrug, "You're the one who knows Marguerite best. You tell me. Do you think it'll matter to her?"

"Maybe not to her, but to King Francis…"

"Look, did you actually know anything, anything at all, of King Henry's plans to marry your sister?"

"Apart from the fact that my father had been made Earl of Ormonde? No, I knew he'd been created an Earl and Marie did hint that it wasn't for his diplomatic services, but I never dreamed it would be for this; never dreamed that my sister…"

"Then you go to Marguerite and assure of your undying loyalty, both to her and to King Francis. You tell her that you didn't know anything about how far King Henry's intentions went with regards to your sister and that, while you owe your sister a debt of love, as long as you're in France, she, Marguerite, is your mistress and your Queen, not Marie. See what she says."

"Do you think it'll work?"

"A slightly edited version of the truth is the best chance you've got. If you can persuade Marguerite that, despite your blood, your first loyalty is to her, then you might get out of this unscathed." As he spoke, Harry took Anne's hood from between her white fingers and set it back on her head, "Go and find her," he murmured.

"I will," Anne nodded, before impulsively stretching up on tiptoe to brush her rounded, rosebud lips against his cheek, "Thank you," she breathed.

Before Harry could respond, she had turned and run inside to find Duchess Marguerite, who was, as it happened, playing cards in her salon with her brother King Francis.

" _Madame, Votre Majeste,_ " Anne approached their window table and curtsied.  _"Might I speak with you?"_

Her pretty French was soft, soft enough for only their ears to hear. Marguerite glanced up.

" _Of course, my Boleynette,"_  she replied,  _"Tell us what is troubling you."_

" _How do you know -"_  Anne blurted, before she could stop herself. Marguerite raised an eyebrow.

" _You've barely spoken to me in days, Cherie. Naturellement, something had to be wrong. What is it?"_

" _I – I – I just wanted to say – my sister might be Queen of England now, but I care for Your Grace as a daughter cares for her mother. And for you, Your Majesty, I care as though I were your niece as well as your loyal subject. I swear on the Holy Bible that I had not the slightest inkling of King Henry's intentions to marry my sister. Had I done so, I would have told you, for as long as I am a member of your Court, I consider my first loyalty to be to you and yours, no matter who my parents may be or what blood runs in my veins."_

Anne had stumbled over her words at first, but gradually, they came faster and faster, until at last, they were tumbling over one another in a great, desperate rush. Flushing scarlet, she fell to the ground in another curtsy, mumbling,  _"I beg Your Graces, forgive me. Forgive me and believe me when I say, had I had any power over my family's actions, I would not have seen Duchess Marguerite humiliated for the world."_

Brother and sister exchanged amused glances over her subservient dark head. Francis took his sister's hand and caressed it briefly, before peering down at little Anne.

" _Do you love me, Anna?"_

" _Oh, yes, Your Majesty! With all my heart."_

" _And my sister?"_

" _As fiercely as though she were my own mother."_

" _Then, my little Boleynette, that is enough for me. Rise. Since you cannot help your sister's actions, there is nothing to forgive."_

" _Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty!"_  Anne gabbled, seizing the King's hand and covering it in kisses.

Marguerite laughed at the young girl's effusiveness and helped her up from her knees, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

" _Run and fetch your lute, ma petite. Sing us that Welsh ballad you sing so well."_

" _Yes, Madame,"_  Anne nodded obediently, then hurried off to fetch her lute, relieved that the Valois siblings, at least, did not hold her English heritage against her.


	15. XV

Jean Picard, King Francis's Ambassador to King Henry's Court, slit the seal on his master's correspondence, spreading the closely-written sheets out before him. When he read the contents, a concise account of His Majesty's audience with Lord Derby and Lord Ormonde, he groaned audibly.

" _Sir?"_  His valet, Louis, popped up, already preparing to do whatever Jean asked of him. Jean sighed,  _"Nothing, Louis. Just some unfortunate news from home. You'd best prepare me for an audience with King Henry."_

" _Oui, Monsieur,"_  Louis nodded, going round behind Jean to brush some specks of lint from the back of his doublet.

Sure enough, no sooner had he straightened Jean out than the summons came for the older man to go to King Henry's Privy Chamber.

He did so, his heart sinking as he realised that ire was darkening the younger man's features.

"Sire," he greeted, bowing so deeply that his nose almost brushed the flagstones at his feet. King Henry, however, scarcely seemed to notice. He glared down at Jean, fury emanating from every line of his body.

"So. Your master thinks he can treat me like a child. That he can bully me into doing his will."

The Tudor King's voice was dangerously cool. On the spur of the moment, Jean decided to play the innocent, to try to avert the worst of the storm by pretending ignorance, "Sire, I am afraid..."

It was the wrong tactic to employ. Turning puce, the man in front of him exploded.

"Don't play the innocent with me, Monsieur Picard! You know full well what I speak of. You know as well as I that your master has had the audacity to presume to meddle in my choice of a wife! That he attempts to use the threat of war to coerce me into marrying his sister! His sister! A woman already widowed! As though I couldn't do better than used goods! And to top it all off, he has the nerve to refuse my daughter as a bride for his son. My daughter, an innocent child who has never done anything to him in any way. No, Excellency, I will not stand here and watch Francis add insult to injury. I may not be as overweeningly proud as he is, but I too am a man as well as a King. I too, have my pride. My honour. If it's a war Francis wants, it's a war he shall get."

King Henry's hand clenched on his sword hilt, making the blade rattle in its sheath. Then he jerked it back, eyes blazing, to wave Jean away. A second later, he called him back coldly.

"Monsieur Picard. I expect you to call on Queen Mary to pay your respects at the next opportunity."

Jean kept his face impassive as he bowed his head, skilfully hiding his anger at having to bend the knee to the girl who had usurped his beloved Madame Marguerite's rightful place on England's throne beside King Henry.

"As you wish, My Lord."

* * *

Marie was sitting in her apartments, sewing quietly. Her new ladies surrounded her, most of them following her example, though one or two were reading or gossiping amongst themselves. Looking around as she raised her head, Marie smiled contentedly. She had finally begun to make some headway in turning the Queen's rooms into ones that reflected her, not Katherine. Gone were the near-constant Bible readings in Latin and the stuffy gable hoods of garnet velvet. In their place were elegant gowns of cream satin trimmed with black velvet ribbon, cut in the French style and soft ripples of music, played by the best musicians in England.

Suddenly, the King burst in, beaming as he jolted her out of her reverie.

"You'll get your way after all, Marie, my sweet. You'll be coronated in York within the month."

"Within the month?" Marie stared at Henry, incredulous, before hastily waving her ladies away. As they filed out, she stood, crossing the room to him. She laid a hand on his bejewelled sleeve, "What's brought all this on?"

"Aren't you pleased?" Henry peered down at his new wife in consternation, "You wanted to be crowned in York, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but it's such short notice. I would have thought you'd want to plan it with more time, more lead-up, more care."

"Well, yes, but that was before things changed. Francis has threatened war if I don't set you aside and marry his sister. I need to show him that I won't be bullied into anything. You will be crowned just as soon as I can arrange it and then I will march on that braggart and give him such a thrashing that he will never presume to meddle in my affairs again."

Marie forced herself to smile brightly at him, "Of course you will, Henry. How could my dashing husband do anything less? Francis will never be able to stand up to you."

Her heart, however, was sinking into her slippers. Anne was still at Fontainebleu. Marguerite might have been fond of her sister when they were girls, but this changed everything. If Henry went to war with France, Anne would be one of the enemy. One of the enemy and completely at Francis's mercy. She couldn't help but worry for her baby sister.

Henry read her misgivings in her eyes, "You don't sound as supportive as I would like my Queen to be."

"No. Of course I see that you must go. It is a matter of honour and I am flattered that you care so much for me that you would go to war over me."

"Like Paris over Helen of Troy," Henry interrupted, his face softening as he pulled her into his arms and let her rest her cheek on the warm strength of his chest. Marie paused to relax into his hold, before whispering, "But Your Majesty must remember that I spent many of my formative years in France. I feel betrayed that Francis will not do me the honour of recognising our marriage. And also, I am worried about certain people in Fontainebleu."

It was the wrong thing to say. Her husband's face blackened abruptly and he shoved her away, glaring down at her.

"Are you telling me, Madam, that you are more worried about the safety of your old French friends than whether or not your husband will return safely? My God, I knew I'd married low, but I didn't realise I'd married a traitoress into the bargain!"

Marie gaped up at Henry, stunned to see him go from loving and tender to puce and spitting furiously within the blink of an eye. His calling her a traitoress struck at her quick and tears pooled in her eyes as she tumbled to her knees before him, freeing her hair as she did so.

"My Lord, please! You don't understand. Of course I shall be praying for you. And for anyone else who goes into battle to defend our right to be wed. That would only be right and just; my sworn duty as your wife and Queen. But I left my sister behind in France. She's barely more than a child. I fear what Francis might do to her, if he wishes to wreak his vengeance upon me and mine. He's declaring war on you, just for marrying me instead of Madame Marguerite. What will he do to Annie, who's my sister? Who shares my blood? Who's already within his reach?"

She buried her face in her hands, shoulders heaving as she wept. A heartbeat passed. Two.

Then the King's arms were around her, holding her tight. He helped her up, stroking her hair and rocking her in his arms in an attempt to soothe her fear and her pain.

"Oh, Marie, darling," he breathed, "You were right. I didn't understand. It's only natural you must be worried about young Lady Anne. But don't be. I'm bringing home all my other envoys before Francis marches. I'll make sure she's among them. I promise. So dry your eyes, sweetheart. Your concern does you great credit, but I'll have her home, safe and sound, in time for your coronation."

"Really?"

"Do you really think I'd leave her there? When she's in danger and you're about to be crowned? No, no, darling. A Queen can't be crowned without her sister at her side to bear her train, can she now?"

Marie shook her head slightly, sniffing. She leaned back into him, drawing comfort from his promises and his embrace.

* * *

"Your Majesty, are you sure you can't be persuaded to break off your marriage to the Lady Rochford? It's not too late to re-enter talks with King Francis. If Your Grace would only agree to declare the Lady Mary naught but your mistress and wed the Duchess of Alencon, King Francis could still be appeased. We could avoid this war; taxes could be kept lower and we could still give England the new Queen she deserves and longs for."

"Upon what grounds, My Lord of Rochester, would you have me annul my union with the Lady Mary? She assures me she was never pledged before witnesses to the Butler boy, so what possible grounds could there be for annulment? Let me assure you now that non-consummation must be laid aside immediately. So I ask again, upon what grounds?"

"Why, that Your Grace was already contracted to the Duchess of Alencon, naturally. After all, His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey had already entered into negotiations for just such a match to take place when Your Grace wed the Lady Mary."

" _Negotiations,_  not contracts. Besides which, it was done behind my back, without my consent. You of all people should know, Lord Rochester, that the sacred union of marriage can only be entered into by the full consent of both parties. No, Sir, the pre-contract argument will not stand. Nor will any other.  _Queen_ Mary and I were married by a licensed priest, before witnesses, in the sight of God's Holy Church. There's no valid reason for trying to make me set her aside. Nor will I ever, for not only is she the only bride I could ever countenance, she's also most likely the mother to be of England's future King. Set her aside and accept some other man's spoilt, doted-upon, much used, parcel of French goods, as my wife in her stead? I think not. My possible marriage to the Duchess of Alencon is gone, dust, ashes. I don't want to hear another word about it. Is that clear?"

Henry glared around the table at his advisors, who had had the gall to leave London and come and harass him on this, his Northern holiday, instead of following the orders he had given them and preparing for war.

"Is that clear?!" He roared, striking the table and making them all jump. Too angry to say another word, he shoved his chair back and stalked out of the room.

* * *

The pretty green banks of the Thames drifted past as the barges carrying the Earl of Northumberland's party rowed swiftly downstream to join the Court in Newcastle. However, his fifteen year old son and heir, Harry Percy, scarcely even noticed them. To him, they, like any other landscape, no matter how enchanting, paled into insignificance next to the sight of the raven-haired girl who stood in the prow of the same boat as Harry himself. One of her arms was hooked round the base of the figurehead and her raven hair gleamed in the late July sunshine. Her skin was pale, creamy-white even in the glare of the sunlight, and her eyes, though they were subdued as she turned at the sound of Harry's footfall behind her, had the ability to hold the most captivating, impish light if she was amused.

Her light silk gown of crimson striped with silver swirled about her, accentuating her slim waist, which Harry brushed his fingers against for the briefest of instants before settling his hand beside hers on the neck of the figurehead.

"Are you all right? Are you ready?" he asked, breaking the silence without looking at her.

"In a way. I haven't much choice. But I haven't seen Marie in over a year. And she's Queen how. She's about to be crowned. Things will have changed for us. I just don't know how much they'll have changed. That's what scares me most, really. Not knowing how things have changed. Not knowing whether I'll be able to deal with them or not."

Like Harry, Anne kept her gaze straight ahead as she spoke. An observer might not have known that the two of them were conversing at all, but this was how they always spoke of difficult matters when in public. Anne was always better at opening her heart to someone if she didn't have to look at them as she was speaking.

"You'll be fine," Henry assured her, placing his hand over hers on the figurine where their bodies shielded it from view. "You've dealt with change before, remember, and you were fine then. Why should this be any different? After all, you're Madame Marguerite's bold little Boleynette as well as being Queen Mary's sister."

"True," Anne murmured, involuntarily reaching up with her free hand to brush a fingertip against the rose gold and pearl B pendant Duchess Marguerite had given her as a parting gift, the memory overtaking her as she did so.

_"This is for you, ma petite. So that you don't get too caught up in being the Queen's sister, Lady Anne Rochford and forget that you were ever my Boleynette."_

" _Oh, how could I ever do that?!" Anne cried, shedding tears of real sorrow at having to leave her beloved Madame as the latter fastened the clasp of the precious necklace. "You've been a Maman to me, the greatest influence I will ever have!"_

"Anyway, you don't have to worry. Whatever happens, you'll always be  _my_  Lady Anne," Harry's soft whisper broke into Anne's musings. Startled, the thirteen year old turned to him, but before she could respond, Harry had grabbed her hand, brushed his lips against it and strode away to help supervise their landing.

Once they had landed and ridden into Newcastle, they were swept up in the tumult of Court. Harry was borne off to see his father and Anne was escorted to her father's new rooms to make herself more presentable for an audience – an audience! – with her sister.

To her surprise, Harry rejoined her by Marie's Privy Chamber door. Newly resplendent in herald – Marie's herald! – announced, "Lord Percy and Lady Anne Rochford to see you, Madam."

"Your Majesty. Queen Marie," Anne smiled, dropping low into a curtsy and holding it as Harry went forward and kissed her sister's hand.

"Madam," he breathed, every inch the consummate courtier, for all he was only fifteen, "I have been in the sun all the morning, but I am only dazzled now."

"Very pretty," Marie laughed, letting him kiss her hand again before waving at him to stand, "You've brought my sister home, I hear?"

"Yes, My Lady. I've done my level best to ensure she arrived here unharmed. I trust you will find my best adequate for your needs."

"Oh, come now, I'm sure the Percy best is far beyond adequate," Marie laughed. "Very well, Lord Percy. You may go with my thanks and good wishes for your stay here at Court. The rest of you are also dismissed. I wish to be alone with my sister."

"Yes, Madam," the ladies chorused, filing out behind Lord Percy, who paused to look down at Anne and give her an encouraging smile as he went.

Marie noted the encouraging smile, but didn't remark on it, only waiting until the ladies had gone to come across to Anne and raise her from her curtsy.

"Annie. Let me look at you. You're taller!"

"Well, it has been a year or more," Anne managed, rising with relief and embracing her older sister as the latter put out her arms to her, "And look how things have changed for us."

"Yes, they have changed. When I left you that day in France, I never dreamed these would be the circumstances in which we next saw each other," Marie admitted, "Is that necklace new, by the way?" she added, catching sight of her younger sister's new piece of attire.

"Yes. Madame Marguerite gave it to me, to remind me of the days when I was her Boleynette."

Marie's eyes darkened, though knowing she wouldn't be able to dissuade Anne from wearing such a treasured gift from a person she so admired, she said only, "Mind the King doesn't find out where you got it. He's not too keen on all things French at the moment, and most especially not Madame Marguerite." Having delivered that piece of advice, she brightened, "You're to dine with us tonight, you know. Myself and the King."

"Really?" Anne kept her voice cool, as Madame Marguerite had taught her, but her heart was leaping.

" _Bien sur,"_  Marie laughed, "Henry wants to welcome his new sister back to her homeland in person. And next week, we proceed to York, where I am to be crowned Queen. I shall be crowned Queen and you shall carry my train in the Minster. This time next week, I shall be Queen Mary of England. God's anointed Queen Mary, for all the world to see. And you shall be the Lady Anne Rochford, my most trusted maid and sister. How do you like that, Annie, darling?"

Anne slid her eyes away from Marie's flushed, eager face, only to flash them back, excitement blatant in every line of her young body.

"Your Majesty," she murmured, voice trembling with scarcely-suppressed mirth, "I promise you, I shall like it very well indeed."


	16. XVI

Anne was quickly established as one of her sister's favourites, as she ought to be, so no one thought anything of it when Marie, though she dismissed all the others, keeping back Sarah alone, to serve them at table, invited Anne to stay and dine with her and King Henry as an honoured guest.

For Anne's part, her hands were shaking so badly that, when King Henry's step was heard in the passage outside, she could hardly hold her dress out of the way when she curtsied. What if he didn't like her?

She needn't have worried. Marie called her forward, introducing her as, "My sister, the Lady Anne," and within seconds, His Majesty was raising her up and kissing her, saying, "Welcome to Court, Sister Anne. Marie should be ashamed. She never told me you were such a pretty child."

"I'm not a child!" Anne said heatedly, "I'm thirteen! Your Majesty," she added belatedly.

"Why, of course you're not," The King said equably, "I see that now. You're a woman; a fine young woman. I trust you'll be an ornament to our Court."

"I shall try, Your Majesty. I thank you for the compliment," Anne answered, kissing him lightly on both cheeks, as a Frenchwoman would do; as Madame Marguerite had taught her to do, when he told her to, "Kiss me. Kiss me and call me brother, as you would call Marie, 'sister'"

"Annie, you must tell Henry what you told me of Francois's reaction to our marriage," Marie pressed, as the three of them sat down to roasted pheasant, capons and stewed peaches.

Anne took her plate from Sarah, who flashed her a look that clearly said _, "Don't think I'm treating you like this every day,"_  over a teasing smile and cast her mind back, trying to recall exactly what she had said to Marie.

"Well," she said at last, "Once he had stopped shouting like a spoilt child who has been denied what he wants most in the world, he spent weeks roaming the halls of Fontainebleu, as sulky as a bear with a spike riven in his paw."

King Henry rewarded Anne's tale with a raucous shout of laughter, making her start.

"Like a bear with a spike in his paw?"

"Aye, Sire. Not even my old mistress could cheer him easily, and she was his most beloved sister."

"A bear with a spike in his paw," the King repeated, clearly much taken with the metaphor. "Oh sister Annie, that sums Francis up! You must stay near me so that I may have the pleasure of your clever observations more often."

"Of course she'll be near you, Henry," Marie interjected, "As my little sister, how could she be anything else? Is she not to carry my train at my coronation in the Minster?"

"She is indeed. And what colour gown would you like for that duty, hmm?" The King directed that question at Anne, who felt her cheeks grow warm under his scrutiny as she replied, "I suit the darker hues, Sire, unlike my golden angel of a sister."

"Darker hues, hmm? Then shall we gown you in forest green? Forest green velvet with gold embroidery and sewn with tiny diamonds?"

"Your Grace is far too generous," Anne gasped, her mind whirring as she tried to calculate what such a gown would cost, "I don't deserve..."

"Don't deserve? Nonsense! We can't have my own Queen's sister letting the side down at her coronation, can we? You'll take the gown as my gift and be glad of it."

"No, brother. I thank you, brother," Anne finally said, seeing the King wouldn't be dissuaded. She sat back in her chair and took another mouthful of pheasant, content with the way her first evening with her new brother in law was going.

* * *

" _If Anne thought her gown was grand, she should see this one,"_  Marie thought, peering eagerly into the looking glass before her.

The tight-fitting cloth of sliver bodice and overskirts highlighted how slender she was and the sapphire blue silk underskirts, along with the sapphires studding the overskirt, echoed the blue of her eyes. Yards and yards of silver tulle pooled on the floor behind her, waiting for a maid to come and pick it up. Her honey curls, usually bound up in a snood, tumbled free for once, strings of chunks of lapis lazuli wound into them. She looked...different. Regal.

"Queen Mary," she breathed to herself, "Queen Mary."

The words had a magical ring to them, one she still couldn't quite believe. She fingered the many-stranded sapphire and diamond necklace Henry had given her the night before. He seemed determined to make up for the fact that he couldn't crown her from the Tower by showering her in jewels.

A knock on the door dragged her from her musings.

"Are you ready, My Lady Queen?"

Charles Brandon looked in, unable to stop himself gaping as Marie revolved slowly to face him. He wanted to find the words to describe how she looked, how pure and innocent, but you would have needed a skilful poet for that. He wasn't a poet at all, much less a skilful one, and as such, words failed him. At last, all he said was, "It's time."

"I know, Lord Suffolk. I'm ready."

She put her hand on his arm and, with a maid holding her train out of the dust, he laid her down the stairwell and out to the Castle doorway. Her sister met them there, swallowing hard as she took in what a vision of beauty and majesty her sister was before sweeping to the floor in a deep obeisance, "Your Majesty."

"Sister," Marie greeted, as Anne kissed her hand and went around behind her to pick up her train, "Let us go."

* * *

Marie never really did remember her coronation day in the years to come. It all passed in far too much of a blur for that. She did remember kneeling on the floor of the Minster to swear allegiance to God, King Henry and the people of England, of vowing to serve them faithfully and with all of her heart until her dying breath. She could call to mind exactly the smell and feel of the Chrism with which the Dean of the Minster, Richard Welby, anointed her on her hair, chest, hands and feet; the weight of the orb and sceptre as they were placed in her hands.

Princess Mary and her own brother George's excited faces as she passed them in the front pew on her return from the altar was also forever imprinted on her mind. But the pageants and masquerades played out in her honour? No, they were gone, blending into one another in one great colourful rush of celebration.

A different day, however, she remembered far more clearly. The day Henry sailed to undertake his war against France.

"I've made Buckingham and Suffolk joint Regents while I'm away, but you're still their Queen. They still have to answer to you. Make sure they remember that," Henry whispered, taking Marie's face between his hands as they stood on the docks at Whitby.

She nodded, "I will, I promise."

"And you'll go straight back to Bridewell Palace and stay there until you hear otherwise, understand? I need you somewhere I know you'll be safe."

"I will, Henry, you have my word. But you take care too. Come back to me safe, please. Come back to me."

"Don't fret, sweetheart. God's on my side. Dieu et mon droit, remember? Of course I'll come back to you."

"Good. I'll be here waiting. As will someone else."

"Someone else?"

Smiling impishly, Marie gently removed one of his hands from her cheek and guided it down to her belly, letting it linger there as he worked out the full import of what she was trying to tell him for himself.

"Marie! Darling!"

With a joyful bellow, he swung her off her feet and spun her round, "What news! You've made me the happiest man alive!"

"Exactly. So carry that news with you, my lord husband. Carry it with you as you give Francis the thrashing of a lifetime and, when you return to me victorious, we'll make a public announcement that I am with child. Is that a bargain?"

"It's a bargain!" Henry swore, kissing her fully on the mouth before kneeling for her blessing and bounding away from her up the gangplank of his enormous flagship, the "Great Harry."

His last sight of England, as the ship drifted out of harbour, was Marie, surrounded by her ladies, waving to him, her eyes alight with the secret they shared.


	17. XVII

" _Dearest Marie,_

_My darling, the campaign is going exactly as we could wish. For all his talk of war, Francis is woefully unprepared. He fails to offer even the slightest protection to his citizens. I feel God must be punishing him for it by allowing us to take his land so easily. Amiens was ours almost as soon as we could muster the men to march upon it and now Rouen is in a similar state. Once Rouen falls, there's nothing to stop us marching on Paris._

_Francis will soon be naught but our prisoner, dancing to our tune. Aquitaine and Anjou will be ours and Mary will be his son's betrothed and Dauphine of France before her next birthday. How's that for a coup, eh?_

_War is all very well, however, and I certainly can't complain, not when Lady Fortune is smiling upon us to this extent, yet it all falls flat when I remember what I'm missing at home. I long for nothing more than to see your smile as I hand you the symbol of our victory; King Francis's own ceremonial sword; the smell of your hair as I pull you close to kiss you; to be with you as you watch and feel our son growing inside you."_

Henry sat, penning a letter to his Marie. He took great pleasure in seeing the words form on the page, in imagining his darling's happiness as she read them; her joy in learning that he was safe and sound – a hero as great as that great Agincourt winner, his namesake, Henry Plantagenet. He was so caught up in his imaginings that he didn't even hear the 'boom' of his own cannon or the jubilant shouts of his men. Only Anthony Knivert's shout from right outside the tent drew any reaction from him.

"Sire! The gunners tell us the walls will fall any moment! The men are howling for their King to come and lead them over in triumph."

Henry jolted to his feet. At last! He'd soon be home now!

Helmet under one arm, he bent to add a few more lines to his letter: _"God willing, I'll be back before the end of autumn, sweetheart. In the meantime, take care of yourself. Godspeed and God Bless._

_Your loving husband,_

_Henry Rex_

Then he raced out of the tent to take his place at the head of his men. It was time to put Francis in his place once and for all.

* * *

"When the King gets back, you must press him to allow the marriage between George and Lady Margaret," Thomas reached out and grabbed his daughter's chin, forcing her head up so she had to look him in the eye, "It's your duty to this family!"

Marie winced at the strength of his grip, though she knew he would be careful not to leave bruises. Not on her skin; not where anyone could see.

Inwardly she was shaking, but then she remembered Henry's words on the day he had left for France, " _You're still their Queen. They still have to answer to you. Make sure they remember that."_

They gave her courage; courage to meet her father's eye and say calmly, "Oh really, Papa? I was not aware that my duty lay with the Boleyns anymore. I thought it was to England and the King. Forgive me if I was mistaken."

Thomas Boleyn gaped. Marie had never spoken to him in such a manner. She had always been the most obliging of all his children. Yet now it seemed that the chit had let her newfound power go to her head. He released her as though he'd been stung, though he compensated by making his voice even harder as he hissed at her, "You fool! What use do you think your new title will be if you don't have the powerful friends to back it up? Do you forget that you are replacing a Princess of Spain on the throne?"

"No, Papa. I know how important family is. You have my word that I will speak for the match if I think it appropriate. You've had that for weeks. But I intend to watch the two interact before I make a decision. That's my final word on the subject."

"Marie, for pity's sake!"

Marie cut her father off, adopting an authority she did not yet feel entirely comfortable using, "I think you'll find, Lord Ormonde, that the correct way to address a Queen is 'Your Majesty'. If you cannot even remember that, then leave me."

"Your Majesty.."

"Leave, please."

Faced with a direct royal command, Thomas Boleyn had no choice but to obey. If he wanted his daughter to ever be respected in her new role, than he had to set at least a semblance of an example. Grumbling under his breath, he sketched a sort of half-bow and backed out of the room.

Marie watched him go, trembling. She'd never defied her father before, not this openly.

Anne noted it immediately, coming up behind her, "So? Royal power made you grow a backbone at last, did it?"

"Annie! I could have you arrested for speaking to me like that!" Marie retorted, but her blue eyes were laughing as she turned to face her little sister. The whole room of ladies, who had been unsure what to do when the Queen's own father started manhandling her, breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Not one of them missed their mistress glancing back at the door her father had just come through and muttering, "That's the last time he treats any of us like that. We're not pawns to be sacrificed for the sake of his ambition. Not anymore."

The determination in her graceful body was too clear for that.

* * *

On the other side of the Channel, another young woman stood with her hands on her hips, facing down her brother.

"Francois, you can't be serious! After everything old King Louis did to stabilise the Crown; to expand its borders, you're just going to throw it away to this Tudor upstart? Tell me you're not serious!"

King Francis threw up his hands, "What would you have me do, Marguerite? Lose my throne entirely? At least if I offer Henri these terms, I'll keep my throne and all of Brittany and everything east of Limoges. And we'll get Anjou back when his daughter Mary marries my Henri. We're not making him King, only Duke of Aquitaine."

"Aquitaine! Our greatest vassal state! What are you thinking?!"

"Marguerite,  _Cherie_..."

"No. You don't call me  _Cherie_  anymore,  _majesté_. You lost that right when you tried to pawn me off as a bargaining chip on the altar of your ambition! And then made it worse by failing to defend my betrothal, instead wilting beneath that Welsh dragon's feeble puffs of smoke!"

Marguerite whirled on her heel and slammed the door as she strode out, ignoring both her brother's frantic calls for her to return and the bows and curtsies being accorded to her by the courtiers who parted for her like the Red Sea as she passed.

Francis sighed and turned to the other woman in the room.

"Can't she see that I'm doing my best here,  _Maman?_  Can't she see that I've got my back to the wall here? You can. It's your lands, your title, I'm gifting away, and yet you're taking it better than Marguerite is. I don't understand."

"Ah, but  _mon roi_ , I'm used to the turns of Lady Fortune's wheel. Marguerite isn't. She'll come round, I promise. She's just disappointed, that's all."

"Disappointed? Marguerite is disappointed in me?" Francis's voice rang with incredulity, the incredulity of the spoilt family favourite who has just been refused something or scolded for the first time in his life. Louise spread her hands and shrugged elegantly.

" _Bien sur._  You promised her a glittering future as the Queen of England, only to fail to protect it as it was stolen away from her by the sister of an old maid of hers. And as if that wasn't bad enough, she now has to watch as her beloved brother hands our ancient enemy the best part of our territory almost on a plate. Of course she'll be disappointed. How could she be anything other than disappointed?"

Francis's shoulders slumped as he took in the truth of his mother's words. Moments later, however, he raised his head again and his eyes were hard.

"I'll get it back,  _Maman_. I don't care how long I have to wait. I swear I'll get it back."

* * *

Henry glared at Francis over More's shoulder. "What do you mean, he'll only sign the treaty if I swear on oath that I'll grant my daughter Mary Anjou as her dowry when the time comes? I hardly think he's in a position to be making demands as large as that!"

"Of course he's not, Sire," More soothed, "Of course he's not."

"So why are we even humouring the scoundrel by discussing it?"

Henry's face was puce with rage. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. He was pacing quickly up and down – three steps forward, three steps back.

"I've half a mind not to sign the damn thing at all, but to raze Paris to the ground; to sack it and raze it to the ground. Then he wouldn't have the nerve to look me in the eye and demand something as audacious as Anjou," he growled. Sighing, More held up his hand.

"I know, Sire, but if you were to grant Francis his wish, you'd be known throughout Christendom as the King who was the most gracious in victory. Wouldn't that be something? You'd be a warrior as great as Henry V and a lord as gracious as old King Edward or even King David. You'd almost be on a par with Arthur himself."

Henry paused at More's words. Him, as great as King Arthur? That really would be something. That would really show his father's ghost that he, not sickly Arthur, was the one who had been born to be King. Would signing the treaty as it was really be so bad?

Sensing he had the King baited, More carefully began to reel in his line.

"It's not like you couldn't make a demand of your own in exchange, Sire."

More hated himself for being so conniving, but right now, all he wanted to do was get this treaty signed. Anything to get this campaign over and the King safely home to his new bride before anything could happen to him and before the weather got too bad to permit sailing. If being conniving was what it took, then he would be conniving.

For a moment, Henry fell silent, thinking. Then he smirked.

"All right. I'll promise to dower Mary with Anjou, if Francis wants me to. But I want his sword in exchange."

"His sword, Sire?"

"His ceremonial sword. I will lay it at my love's feet in triumph, just as the Pharaohs of Egypt used to do with their Queens."

More gulped, hesitated a moment. Then he bowed, "Majesty."

He walked over towards the French King, wishing he didn't have to do this. Why in Heaven's name had he ever suggested Henry make a demand in exchange for swearing to dower Princess Mary with Anjou when the time came? He might have known Henry would come up with something like this.

" _Because it was the only way you'd ever see a halfway honourable truce concluded,"_ a voice said in his ear. Trying to ignore it, More bit the inside of his cheek and bowed before the French King.

"His Majesty sent me to tell you, Sire, that he will promise to dower Her Highness Princess Mary with Anjou when she comes to France to marry the Dauphin, if you so wish it. But he wants something in exchange."

King Francis attempted a laugh, "Something in exchange? What more can your master want than half my kingdom?"

"He wants your sword, Sire?"

"My sword?" King Francis's face was blank, uncomprehending.

"Your ceremonial sword, Sire. He wishes to lay it at Queen Mary's feet in triumph."

More kept his face carefully impassive, but it didn't stop his heart inwardly wrenching for the French King as the younger man's face went white.

"My sword? No!  _C'est Impossible!"_

The words were out before King Francis could stop them. Louise of Savoy cut him off, stepping smoothly into the breach.

"I presume, Master More, that your master will see to it that an exact duplicate, perfect in every detail, is sent out from England before the next great feast days?"

More hid his surprise at the former Duchess of Anjou's ever-consummate grace and confidence. Bowing more deeply than he feared Henry would like, he nodded, "I should think that could be arranged, Madame de Valois, yes."

"Very well. You may tell your master we accept his terms. He'll have our signatures on the treaty within the next forty-eight hours."

More bowed once more and gratefully retreated to rejoin the English entourage, torn between exultation on his King's behalf and pity for the vanquished.

* * *

"And then she just dismissed me as though I were nothing! Me, her own father! Does the ungrateful chit not realise how much I've done for her?!" Thomas Boleyn was roaring with fury as he stalked around his chambers, fists clenched. Laying aside her sewing, his wife Elizabeth rose to stand before him, laying a soothing hand on his cheek.

"I'm sure she does, Thomas. I'm sure she does. She was probably just trying to be a good Queen and not show favouritism, at least not this early in her reign. You ought to be proud of her."

"She denied her own brother the chance of a good match! She refused to help us rise; to do her duty to this family!"

"Her duty is to England now," Elizabeth reminded him quietly, "To England and the King."

When Thomas didn't reply, she sighed, "I'll talk to Marie. There'll be a reason for this, I'm sure. But you've got to stop losing your temper with her. It's not going to do you any good. Not anymore."

Leaving her husband mulling her words over, however reluctantly, she went to the Queen's rooms, where she was welcomed warmly by her daughter.

"Mama. This is a pleasant surprise. Do sit down. What can I do for you?"

"May we talk in private, Madam?" Elizabeth asked, the unusual honorific feeling awkward on her lips, "It's a family matter I've come about."

If Marie was surprised, she didn't show it. "Of course," she said graciously. Clapping her hands, she sent her ladies scampering from the room, though not before Edith Dudley had brought them both a cup of mead.

Marie took a sip of hers, then looked at her mother over the rim of her goblet, "What's troubling you, Mama?"

"It's – Marie – Look-" After three false starts, Elizabeth decided there was no point beating about the bush and came straight out with it.

"Why did you refuse to ask your husband's blessing for George to marry Lady Margaret Courtenay? Your Father's furious."

Marie hesitated, then reached out a hand to her mother, "I don't think you and Papa quite understand, Mama. I don't begrudge George a marriage to a young woman of noble birth. Far from it. I'd be a hypocrite if I did and besides, I care for my brother. I want to see him marry well."

"But then – why not Lady Margaret?"

"I want to see my brother marry well," Marie continued, as though Elizabeth had not spoken, "But above all, I want to see him happy. I'm Queen now, I need a family I can rely on around me. That means my brother has to marry a woman he likes, because their marriage has to be able to survive being in the spotlight. Give George and Margaret time to get to know one another first. If, after you've watched them interact for a while, you still think their union is a good idea, come back to me and we'll talk about it again."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but before she could respond, Isabel Baynton opened the door.

"Apologies for the intrusion, Your Grace, but this just came from Paris. I thought you'd like to see it."

"Give it to me," Marie could hardly restrain her impatience as Isabel laid the message in her hand. She broke the seal with trembling fingers...then gasped with pleasure.

"What is it?" Elizabeth asked. Marie looked up at her and her normally demure blue eyes were sparkling.

"He's done it. He's won. Henry's coming home, Mama! He's coming home!"


	18. XVIII

The Tudor Rose was everywhere. Emblazoned on the herald's shields, on the white and golden banners of victory snapping above people's heads, in people's hands as they thrust the last of a late crop into their King's hands as they showered him with them.

There was no hint of the gloom that had palled London for almost two years. Not today. Today was a day of delight, of triumph...and of love.

Of a people's love for their King, of a King's love for his country and, as Henry finally rode into sight of the steps of Richmond Palace and saw Marie standing there, holding little Mary's hand, of a husband's love for his wife.

His heart swelled at the sight of her, his lips parted into the widest smile it was humanely possible to give and seconds later, he was drawing rein and leaping down to kneel in supplication at her feet, Francis's sword held high above his head.

"My Lady Queen, as Ramses laid his sword of victory before Nefertari, as Julius Caesar laid his before Cleopatra, as Arthur laid his before Guinevere, so I lay mine before you today. Please accept it, if not from your husband, then from a conquering hero who wishes to dedicate his success in battle to the peerless lady of his heart."

His voice carried, holding every single person in the courtyard captive, spellbound by the spectacle unfolding before them. Marie paused, looking down at his golden head, bowed before her. Then, releasing Princess Mary, who stood obediently beside her, transfixed at the unfamiliar sight of her Papa kneeling to her Mama, Marie bent to take the sword from his grasp, holding it high in both hands as she responded, "My Lord, I thank you for this display of your gracious affection for me. I count myself deeply honoured to have such courageous exploits undertaken in my name and thank God both for their success and for the fact that He has seen fit to let you return to me unharmed."

She turned, handed the sword to her Uncle, the Earl Marshal, who stood only a pace away from the kneeling King and then extended her hand to Henry, helping him up. As she did so, she whispered a short sentence to him in Latin.

"My Lord's Happiness is my happiness?" Henry queried softly.

"My new motto. And my device is a swan. A crowned swan with a Tudor Rose in its beak. Do you like it?"

"Like it?" Henry whispered, after a few moments, "I love it, sweetheart."

To prove just how much, he caught her in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, eliciting wild bursts of joy from the masses around them.

Then he swept little Mary into his arms, "Mary, my pearl. Have you been good while Papa was away?"

"Oh yes, Papa," she said complacently, "But I'm not Mary anymore."

"Oh no? And who are you then? Robin Hood's Maid Marian?" he asked teasingly, knowing the people loved to see him with his pretty little girl in his arms.

"Don't be silly, Papa!" she giggled, "I'm not Maid Marian. I'm Maria."

"M...Maria?"

"Yes, Maria. Since Mama's Marie and I'm named after Mama, I must be Maria, mustn't I?"

Henry nearly lost his grip on her. His heart lurched painfully at her innocent words. At her unconscious claiming of the Spanish name her mother used to call her in a particularly tender moment.

His breathing sped up and it was only with a concerted effort that he managed to answer her worried "Papa?" with a reassuring smile and the words, "Of course you must. Forgive me, darling. Papa's just a bit tired at the moment. I wasn't thinking clearly. Of course you're Maria."

Wanting to regain control of the situation as quickly as possible, he shifted her on his hip so he had a free arm to wrap around Marie's waist. Thus securing her in his embrace, he turned back to face the crowd, turning them with him as he raised his voice from the tender whisper he had just used with Mary – nay, Maria, he reminded himself sternly – to one that would carry across the courtyard.

"Good people, I thank you for the love and respect you pay me. I could not think of truer subjects I would wish to share my triumph with. As such, it gives me great pleasure to announce that you are the first to hear that my beloved wife, your Queen Mary, is with child. God willing, England will be blessed with a Prince next spring."

If anything could send the Londoners into even wilder spasms of delight, that was it. Every eye in the crowd flicked to Marie, and, when she smiled and rested her hand on her belly in a silent confirmation of her husband's words, joy tore itself from every throat in the vicinity in an exultant shout of, "God Bless Queen Mary!"

* * *

Inside the Palace, Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, was watching the scene through a high upper window. A sneer curled his lips. His fists were clenched at his sides and, when the crowd hailed Marie in a joyful roar, he turned on his heel away from the window, growling under his breath.

"God, it makes me sick!"

"My Lord?"

"To see the King fawning over that upstart as though she deserves to be his wife! She spent six years in France; she probably thinks of herself as more French than English, for God's sake. Who knows how loyal she really is? And who is she anyway? Some obscure Earl's daughter, whose father didn't even deserve his title!"

"She is the Duke of Norfolk's niece," Ralph Ferrers, the Duke's secretary broke in, daring to remind his master of that unwelcome fact because, and only because, it was the truth. The Duke of Buckingham spat contemptuously into the fire.

"Pah! Howards! Traitorous bastards, the lot of them! No, I tell you, Ralph, my daughter would be a far better match for the King than 'Mademoiselle Boleyn' – Mary Bullen – will ever be!"

"Maybe, Your Grace. But it's Lady Marie the King chose to marry."

"Aye. But that's not to say he'll stay married to her, is it?"

Ralph gulped. If he wasn't wrong – and he sincerely hoped he was – the Duke's words had a decidedly treasonous smack about them.

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"Never mind what I mean. You just write to my Katherine and tell her to get herself back to Court as soon as she possibly can. Leave the rest to me, you understand?"

"Yes, My Lord," Ralph bowed his head and left the room, hoping against hope that his master wouldn't do anything foolish.

* * *

The herald banged his staff against the floor, "Lady Katherine Stafford to see you, Madam."

Marie glanced up in surprise, "Lady Katherine Stafford? But I wasn't expecting her."

Sir John Shelton, her uncle and Comptroller of her household, bent towards her, "The third daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, Madam. It's my belief the Duke hoped she could secure herself a place among your ladies."

"Without asking if I needed another Lady-in-Waiting? Wasn't that premature?"

At the surprise in Marie's tone, Sir John spread his hands, "With all due respect, My Lady, not many people would refuse a Stafford."

"You're tactfully trying to say that I have no choice in the matter?"

"I fear not, My Lady."

Marie sighed, momentarily hating the power and influence – the struggle for it – that surrounded her new position, before she pasted a smile on her face.

"Very well, John. Send her in."

A few moments later, a tall, elegant young woman about Marie's own age was curtsying before her.

The young woman's eyes were unusual – green flecked with hazel – and her flowing hair, which rippled well past her waist, almost to her hips, was mostly chestnut brown, although a few lighter strands hinted at her Woodville ancestry.

"Madam," Her voice was low, musical.

"Lady Katherine," Marie answered coolly, "I gather your father would be much obliged if I took you into my household."

"Yes, if Your Grace would be so kind," Katherine replied, unsure how to react to such a cool reception. She was used to the name 'Stafford' opening every door for her.

As if the Queen could sense her uncertainty, she warmed her smile a fraction.

"You're a beautiful girl, Lady Katherine. Young and beautiful and, I've no doubt, vivacious. You realise that I am with child and there won't be many entertainments until our Prince is born and I am churched?"

"Yes, Madam," Katherine nodded.

"And you still wish to take up a place in my household?"

"Yes, My Lady. I'm a skilled seamstress. It would be both an honour and a pleasure to lend a hand in sewing the little Prince's layette."

The words were those which any skilled courtier could have forced out, even against their will, yet the light in Lady Katherine's eyes suggested she was being genuine. Despite herself, Marie chuckled, "Well then. Welcome to my household, Lady Katherine. Though I think we'll start calling you Kathy. Katherine isn't the most auspicious name you could bear at Court at the moment."

Kathy nodded, curtsying, "As Your Grace wishes."

Marie watched her for a moment longer, seemingly studying her, and then clapped her hands, "Sarah. See Kathy sworn in and then see if you can find a livery that'll fit her until her father can have some made for her."

Kathy rose from her curtsy and followed the redhead who stepped forward deeper into the room. The ranks of women dressed in cream satin trimmed with black velvet ribbon opened to admit her, silently welcoming her into the Queen's household.


End file.
